Sick Leave
by readithoney
Summary: John is under the weather. "You called me in sick. I'm off duty. Please don't take this the wrong way, but **** off." Story Complete.
1. Chapter 1

**Sick Leave**

John is under the weather.

Disclaimer: I own nothing. This is written for my own amusement.

...

Dorian dropped into the car where John Kennex waited, parked outside the warehouse apartment the DRN shared with Rudy. "Can I thank you again for getting me a room with the loneliest man on Earth?" his lips pursed and his bright eyes graced John with an accusatory gaze.

"You want to go back to the ken dolls?" John's threat lacked the usual air of playful cruelty that he tended to use on his partner. Instead of antagonizing and spirited, the threat came out as real and annoyed. John was gripping at the steering wheel overly tight as he drove to work. Most people would have seen this as Kennex's normal, discourteous behavior. A blue crack of light flashed beneath Dorian's flawless skin as he examined his partner.

"You're sick," Dorian stated as a matter of fact.

Kennex sunk lower in his seat and rolled the back of his head against the headrest, "Am not," he muttered. "I just had a late night."

"Your upper lip is sweaty and your hair line, too," Dorian said, his blue eyes maintained a constant and concerned lock on the other man. Kennex squirmed with discomfort. "You look pallid, even for you." Dorian stuck two fingers out to rest them on John's forehead.

He batted the fingers away dismissively, "Lay off, robot."

"You have a fever," Dorian looked forward toward the street and once again his face glowed blue, "I could get a more accurate reading if you'd let me—"

Kennex thrust a hand out, displaying his fingers in a gesture meant to silence the DRN, cutting him off mid-sentence. He eased the car onto the expressway. "I said I'm fine." They drove in silence, John brooding and Dorian busy with the flashing lights on his head.

"I've already called you in sick for the day, so you should probably head for home," Dorian turned to look at John. He was clearly happy with himself.

Kennex jerked the wheel, sending the car across three lanes and skidded to a halt along the shoulder of the expressway, eliciting angry honks from other drivers. John twisted in his seat to look into the face of the ridiculously realistic mass of wires, synthetic skin, and light bulbs. "Are you serious right now?" he asked, furious. His head was pounding. "Undo it."

He was manic and his stomach seemed to lurch up into his throat. The detective had to close his eyes and cover his mouth with his clenched fist to quell the rising queasiness. Once the storm passed, he opened his eyes and said with more restraint, "Undo it, Dorian, now."

The android shook his head in response, the curved smile lines around his mouth doing a rather poor job of concealing his amusement.

"Jesus, I'll do it myself." John patted on his shirt, jacket, and pants pockets then looked around his car in a rage. "I left my fucking cell phone."

"I think you should let me drive you home, John," Dorian said, "You are clearly ill."

"Get out. Walk back to Rudy's. Enjoy the fresh air." Kennex leaned over Dorian's lap and pushed open the door to the passenger seat, "Out of the car."

Dorian sat there, washing John with a contemplative look. He pursed his lips and cocked his head slightly to the side.

"You know what?!" Kennex raised his voice far too much. He sounded irrational even to himself, but now there was tremendous pressure to finish his thought, "I've gotten rid of other robots like….this only…" Silence overtook him and a green look passed by John's face and he turned to his own door and shoved it open. He lost the control and his breakfast in one quick movement out the door and on the ground next to the cruiser. Traffic rushed by, sending waves of hot, metallic-smelling air into the car.

Dorian placed a hand on the back of John's neck. "Come on, let me take you home."

"Goddammit," Kennex cleared his throat disgustingly and spat an acidic wad onto the ground. He pulled the car door shut in a fit. "Fuck." He shrugged Dorian's hand off of him in a violent jerk, started the car up, and merged recklessly into traffic. At the next exit he spun off and turned the car around.

Dorian was quiet but his eyes never left John. This made him want to scream. "Stop hovering" he insisted, "Stop _looking_ at me. I'm not a science project!"

"I'm not sure what you have," Dorian sighed, "once we get back to your place, I'll run some tests."

"Yeah, fuck that," John growled, "I'm dumping you off back at Rudy's. I don't need Nurse Dorian pissing me off while I recover."

They were close to John's building and he found the wheel shifting beneath his grip. Dorian had assumed control. Fighting it, Kennex squeezed his hands harder around the steering wheel but found the car unresponsive and the wheel impossible to budge. Giving up, he folded his arms, and scowled. As it turns out, he really _was _too sick for this shit. He glared out the window, stewing in the misery caused by the wanging headache behind his eyes and the terrible taste in his mouth.

Dorian opened the car door for John and offered a hand. The dreary detective ignored it and launched himself from the vehicle, slamming the door. Dorian made the door lock beep with a flash of blue light just under his ear on the left side.

"I'm not inviting you in," John said, leaning back against the cruiser. The cold metal made him realize that he had sweat right through his shirt. He couldn't think about Dorian right now. "If I can make it to my door, I'm going to crawl into the shower, and sit on the floor there until tomorrow." He was telling himself as much as he was telling Dorian. "See you tomorrow."

"I could carry you," Dorian offered.

Kennex shoved past him, toward the elevator in the parking garage. Dorian followed while chattering about symptoms.

"Aren't you leaving?" John asked wearily.

Dorian shook his head. "Whatever," John growled, resigning himself to the situation. Once inside, he kicked off his shoes and handed his jacket, gun, and shirt to Dorian. He rubbed his socks off on the rug and headed for the bathroom. He was clearly not himself.

From the lofty hallway, Dorian heard the shower turn on and the sound of an electric toothbrush. He headed for the kitchen to boil water for tea. While performing this task, he searched his medical database for possible strains of flu virus in the area.

Kennex emerged from the bathroom looking wet and tired. His hair was plastered to his head and he had donned soft, grey sleep pants that clung low on his hips. Dorian discretely took note of the faded scars from shrapnel that still marked his partner's torso. "You still here?" he asked Dorian, accepting a cup of tea on his way to the couch. He set the tea on the coffee table and stretched out.

John squeezed his eyes shut again. Dorian knew that look. He came from the bathroom with a plastic garbage pail. "If you need to get sick you can—"

John nodded and ripped the flimsy plastic receptacle from Dorians's grip and retched into it pitifully. When he finished, he handed it back to Dorian and rolled onto the floor where he decided to stay. Dorian hadn't ever seen his partner so compromised.

John groped for the hot tea, his fingers running into the power button on his light screen coffee table. Blue and shining in the air, the last browser John had open popped into existence. Dorian leaned forward for a peek. The online dating profile. Heh.

John lifted his heavy head to see the screen and closed it quickly. Shooting Dorian an annoyed glare. "Want to be a pal?" he asked, lifting himself upright, his bloodshot eyes rolling up to find Dorian's face. "Get out so I can be miserable in peace. I get enough flack at the office. I don't need people I work with watching me get sick. "

Dorian rolled his blue eyes up toward his impeccable hairline. "Sip your tea, John."

John brought the tea up to his mouth and took a sip, shaking his head to help ignore the taste in his mouth. He leaned his back into the couch from his position on the floor, "I don't know what is going on. I haven't been sick in years."

"You can't say _that_ anymore," Dorian smirked. He took the plastic waste bin to the bathroom to wash it out.

John took the moment of peace to think about the situation. He couldn't sit here and sip tea on the floor while his partner tooled around his apartment. He got up and took his cup to the kitchen and tossed it down the sink. Dorian came in behind him and John spun to face him. "Look, go Dorian. Get a cab back to Rudy's. I just need to sweat this out." He leaned against the counter and folded his arms. His lips twitched into a fake smile, attempting to prove how good he felt, "I'm really fine. I'll come and pick you up tomorrow."

"You know I'm charged with your safety. As your partner, I'm—"

"At work, on the job, yeah, yeah," John waved a hand in the air, leaning more weight on the stone counter, "You called me in sick. I'm off duty. Please don't take this the wrong way, but fuck off." John gave Dorian a hard look, trying to stand his ground. A sour surge of pain took up residence in his stomach at that moment, forcing him to double over suddenly. Dorian dipped down to one knee and placed his hands on both sides of John's arms for support.

"You are clammy," Dorian sighed, "I need to find a way to get a blood sample over to Rudy."

"You are going to _be_ a blood sample if you don't….!" John wasn't on his game today, he couldn't even come up with a good insult. Another pain shot through his stomach. "Just, please leave. I'm just sick. I need to rest and wait for it to go away." John got himself upright again, for the most part, and shoved down the hall and disappeared behind the bathroom door.

Unperturbed by John's lack of hospitality, Dorian went into the bedroom and made the bed. The apartment was once an industrial building; he examined the brick walls and the large windows. The masonry was old and made John's contemporary furniture seem purposefully sparse. The android drank in a dismal row of black clothing, bright red paint around the windows that he correctly assumed were from the previous owner, and painted concrete floors. Right on the water, this apartment couldn't have been cheap. This was his sanctuary, a monument to the struggle his life had become in the wake of utter devastation. It required a certain amount of reverence to be in this space.

Or, maybe it didn't. Much to Dorian's surprise, there were wine glasses on the dresser and one had lipstick stains on the rim of the glass. Dorian examined it. The wine hadn't been sitting in the glass too long, less than 24 hours. This required investigation, Dorian opened John's online dating profile to see if he had indeed been using it. Access denied. He changed the password. Figures.

He carried the glasses to the kitchen and found John back on the couch. He looked like shit. "Oh dammit," Kennex groaned, "I thought you'd left."

"Was it Detective Stahl?" Dorian asked, sitting by John's legs on the couch. John made no motion to move over and make room. In fact, it looked like the surly detective was considering giving his synthetic companion a good kick.

"Was what Stahl?" John asked, leaning his head back into the couch, "You think she got me sick?"

"Was she the lady you had here last night?" Dorian clarified.

John pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. "No. Jesus. What is wrong with you? Stop spying on me."

"I'm not spying," Dorian said, "I was just in the bedroom making the bed in case you want to lie down and I found the wine glass and—John!" A dark, thick droplet of blood was emerging from John's nostril and when it formed a stream, the other side of his nose began to drip as well.

When he felt the wetness on his lips, John touched his face and recoiled at the sight of so much blood coming from his nose unexpectedly. He recovered quickly, pinched his nose, and lifted his chin, tilting his head all the way back.

Dorian's face darkened with concern. "Don't tilt your head back, John."

"Okay mom," John barked sarcastically, "Get me a _fucking_ tissue."

Heading for the bathroom, Dorian muttered, "I bet you didn't talk to your mom like that." Under the sink, he found a first aid kit and selected a syringe sealed in a sterile bag in the bottom of the plastic box. He returned and handed John a wad of toilet paper. "You don't have tissues."

John stuffed the toilet paper into his nostrils with the grace of a drunken gorilla. He looked even paler than before and his forehead was wet with perspiration. Bloody strips of toilet paper in his nose did nothing to improve his look. When Dorian brandished the syringe, John looked at him wild eyed, "You stay away fromb me with that thig, goddammbit."

"If I can get a blood sample," Dorian said softly, approaching slowly, "Rudy can let me know if you have something in your system besides a flu bug."

John wrenched the toilet paper out of his face. "I really fucking wish that robots could get the fucking flu, so you could fucking feel how I fucking feel right fucking now," John ranted, pulling a couch pillow in front of his lap and hugging it, "fuck. Just stay away from me."

The hand that seized him was quick and the needle in his arm hurt quite a bit. "I'm really sorry John, I'm not trained in collecting blood. I don't know how to do it so it doesn't hurt." Dorian withdrew the needle from the soft skin around the crook of his partner's arm joint. John jerked his arm back and let loose a furious stream of sounds, some of which seemed to be imitating expletives. It was hard to tell.

Dorian injected the blood into the side of his neck and his face bloomed with blue. He was on the line with Rudy to discuss a new symptom and to analyze the sample, ignoring John all the while.

"Make your disco face and search the web for flu symptoms. Educate yourself. Then get a taxi, or a bus, or a friend, or take a fucking walk," John said, rubbing at his arm, "I'm bleeding." He slammed off into the bedroom. He couldn't seem to land in one room for five whole minutes. He knew he couldn't physically eject Dorian from his apartment. Androids weighed a lot more than men and he recently watched Dorian throw a truck. There was little he could do about the nanny-bot making him crazy.

John felt a little dizzy as he entered his room. He thought about the woman he had met last night at McQuades. Her dating profile had been something adorable about bunnies or puppies or some shit. Maybe it was flowers? He couldn't even remember if he'd fucked her or not, everything was a smear of light, a blur, and a lost memory. How much had he had to drink? He felt bile rising in his throat at the very thought of alcohol. He thought about making his way to the bathroom and getting it over with, but Dorian entered the room with all the softness of a hurricane.

"Drugged!" he said, hands on hips, "drugged and maybe date raped!" his face betrayed him as he looked John up and down, "Okay not date raped. But drugged for sure!"

John cupped both his hands over his privates, "What' I say about scanning my balls?"

"Don't move," Dorian snapped, "Rudy is going to send instructions."

John rolled face down onto the bed and moaned, "what the fuck?" into the bed sheets.

Dorian used the coffee table computer to gain access to John's dating profile. He found a conversation between John and a woman, making plans to meet up last night. He attempted to access her profile but found that it had been wiped clean. Figures. John must have been desperate to fall for this.

Rudy was calling in and Dorian answered. "Take good notes on the symptoms, Dorian," Rudy said, unable to conceal his excitement, "You know the gas that targets cops? Well this seems to be a different form, maybe a pill or a liquid drop, but John isn't dead so it must be way milder."

"Should I take him to the hospital?" Dorian was overcome with concern.

"Well, no, not necessarily," Rudy paused to sigh, "They won't know what to do. They won't know what this is. They'll put him through a bunch of tests, piss him off, and I'll still be the one who comes up with an antidote."

"Keep a close eye on him," Rudy suggested, "Don't let him leave or over-exert himself. Keep me updated on the symptoms. Once I have something, I'll get it over to you."

"The cops exposed to the gas form of this stuff died," Dorian stressed.

"Yeah," Rudy agreed, "I don't think you should leave John alone. I'm still looking at the blood sample. If his skin starts to get bubbled or covered in boils, or his hair falls out, or his fingernails fall off, please call me right away. But I don't think that will happen."'

"You don't _think_?"

Rudy didn't want to send the DRN into an emotional episode, "99.9% sure, Dorian. Really, I bet if you took a look around his apartment, you'll find some valuables missing. Rohypnol and other drugs like that wouldn't have any effect on a police officer. The very inoculation that this drug is targeting protects John from almost anything else."

"Okay," Dorian said, turning in the living room to look for any missing objects. "Work fast."

"I'm working now," Rudy assured, "it might just need to run its course. We'll see."

Dorian disconnected the line and went to go find John. Not on the bed anymore, not in the kitchen. Not in the bathroom. There was a crash from the back room. Dorian ran back to John's second bedroom, his trophy room. Glass shards filled the floor and spray paint covered the walls. Expletives, a crude drawing of what seemed to be bacon and an even cruder drawing of what was definitely meant to be male genitalia. In the middle of the carnage stood John looking pale, ill, and bewildered. "John," Dorian said quietly.

John turned to look at Dorian and put his hands out to gesture at everything, "What did I ever do to this bitch?" he asked rhetorically. John walked over to the remnants of a trophy case and picked a medal out of the rubble and examined it angrily. Looking gaunt and overly tired, he left a broken trail of bloody footprints behind his left foot.

"John, you're walking in glass." Dorian crossed the room and lifted John up, slipping one arm under his shoulder and the other crooked behind his knees. He carried him from the room while accepting a barrage of furious insults and a few hard elbows to his chest plate. Dorian dumped him unceremoniously onto the kitchen counter and said, "Relax!" He knelt to examine the bottom of John's foot. John attempted to kick him in the face but Dorian grabbed his ankle in a vice-like grip. John held his breath to hide the pain. A gash below the big toe seemed to be the root of the problem. Blood oozed steadily from the thin wound. There were a few smaller shards of glass stuck in the tender skin in the middle of the foot and around the sides. "Please. Stay put," Dorian asked but made sure to make it seem like more of a warning than a request.

John lifted a finger and opened his mouth to respond, but his face contorted miserably and he leaned over to heave into the sink. His stomach was pitifully empty by now and nothing came out. Dorian wrinkled his synthetic nose and assumed correctly that John wasn't going anywhere. This drug he was given was making him miserable and taking all of the fight out of him. Blood was crusted around his nose and his lips looked dry. Dorian felt an overwhelming urge to soothe his aches.

Upon his return, he brought with him a blanket and the first aid kit from the bathroom. He wrapped the blanket over John's shoulders before getting to work carefully picking the glass out of his foot with a pair of tweezers. John tugged the blanket close, surrounding himself, and buried his face in the soft folds. Dorian carefully bandaged the cuts on his foot, acutely aware of how awful his partner was feeling.

As Dorian finished his task, John's leg announced in a robotic female tone, "Power at 15%."

Dorian did the math. Over the past three days, they had worked a case to completion, never fully leaving the station for home. Last night he was drugged and slept with his leg attached. It had probably been off the charger for three days, probably four or five, knowing John. "Do you think you can sleep?" Dorian asked gently. John was burrowed in his blanket and leaning heavily against the cabinets.

He nodded. Muttering, "I want to brush my teeth first."

Dorian picked John up again. This time, there was no protest. His fever raged and the DRN read his temperature and sent a digital report to Rudy. It was even higher now. "I'll draw you a bath, too," Dorian said, setting John on the couch. He pushed John's pant leg up on the right side and disconnected the synthetic leg. John's attempts to protest were lost in a series of shivers.

Dorian placed the leg carefully in the charging dock and then he drew a lukewarm bath and carried John to the bathroom. "I don't take baths," John groaned, "I'm a man for fuck's sake."

"It is tepid," Dorian said, "You can stay in while it cools down. It should bring down that temperature."

John wanted to storm out of there but as weak as he was, with one leg missing, he was at Dorian's mercy. Once he had wrenched the blanket from the sick detective, Dorian scanned him for any major changes. None of the horror-ridden symptoms that Rudy mentioned had emerged, much to his relief. He helped John out of his pants—or yanked them off of him with great difficulty and feeble protest, and then settled him into the tub.

"What no toys? Where's my rubber duck?" John quipped, "Jesus it's cold." He abandoned covering his genitals to hug his own arms.

"Stay in as long as you can," Dorian said, "I know it sucks."

John glowered, "you don't know shit about being cold you-Ah fuck it." He sunk in the water, hoping to protect himself from the cool air that seemed much more punishing than the cool water. He was goose pimpled and his skin was sensitive to touch.

Dorian left to turn down John's bed sheets and to make him another cup of tea to sip. When he returned, John's teeth were clattering from the cold water. "G-g-get me out of f-f-here," he shivered.

Dorian lent him a hand and wrapped a towel around John who stood there dripping. He looked like an angry, wet cat. After he brought him a pair of boxer shorts and waited for him to finish brushing his teeth, Dorian carried John to his bedroom and put him into bed. "Try to get some rest. I'll be right outside if you need anything."

"Thanks," John said, pulling up the covers around his neck, "Could you do me one more big favor, please?"

"Anything," Dorian said sincerely. He was eager to do something for John that was actually appreciated .

"Go get my gun, bring it in here, and shoot me in the goddamned head," John requested, locking eyes with the android and pulling the covers up to his nose.

Dorian's smile lines ever present around the sides of his mouth disappeared as his lips pressed into a thin hard line of disapproval. "You'll be on your feet in no time," the DRN ignored John's rude request. "I'm going to replace the bandages on your foot then leave you to get some sleep."

John closed his eyes and was out before Dorian returned with fresh bandages. He was moaning softly in his sleep when his partner slipped out and set to work sweeping up the broken glass in the trophy room, after hiding John's gun, of course.

End chapter one


	2. Chapter 2

**Sick Leave: Chapter 2**

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Between sweeping up glass shards and checking in on John's needs throughout the long and miserable night, it was a miracle that Dorian had managed an almost full charge. Halfway through the night he had downgraded John from hot tea to ice chips because he couldn't keep anything down. When dawn broke, the ailing detective finally seemed to find some semblance of sleep.

Making sure John was out soundly, Dorian left the bedroom and moved stealthily to the light phone on the desk and tapped in the number. He wanted this conversation to take place face to face. Captain Maldonado appeared on the air display, her hair swept up into a no-nonsense bun. "Dorian?" she said, only flustered for a second, "You're at John's."

"I am, Captain," Dorian confirmed, "I'm calling him in sick again for today."

Maldonado nodded. "You know, you shouldn't feel obligated to stay with John on his days off."

Dorian smiled, appreciative for her concern, and started right in, fearful that John would wake up and overhear the conversation. "I am going to ask you not to share the information about what is going on. Detective Kennex doesn't want anyone at the station to know his predicament. But _I_ think you should know, Captain, and I know John trusts you."

"What is going on?" The captain didn't betray any emotional response but she was eager to hear what was happening.

Dorian checked for the faint sound of John's snoring before softly continuing, "It appears Detective Kennex was drugged by someone two nights ago. His apartment was vandalized. I'm still determining if anything was taken," Dorian admitted, "Rudy is working on decoding the drug. It appears to be a new form of the gas we encountered several months ago."

The captain shook her head in rejection of the information, "Is he okay?"

"Rudy is confident," Dorian assured her, "But he is really ill. If I can't get him to keep some fluids down today, he's going to get dehydrated."

Maldonado's mouth pressed into a frown, deep concern flooding her face. "I want you to keep me updated, and a full report when it is over," she said, "from you. And from Rudy. John doesn't need to know about it if you don't want. Up to you. I knew we weren't done with this drug."

Dorian nodded, "Copy that." He heard John coughing awake in the bedroom, he glanced quickly, "I have to go, Captain. Please be discreet about this information, John would be devastated to know."

"Of course," Maldonado stated clearly.

"One more thing," Dorian added, "John will have to miss his anger management meeting this morning. He's simply too sick."

"Okay," she unfolded her hands and held them out like she was letting go of an invisible bird, "Nothing we can do I guess."

"I have to go," Dorian reiterated and smiled, "Thank you for understanding, Captain."

He moved to hang up but the Captain stayed his hand with one last comment. "Dorian," she said, leaning in and softening the tone of her voice to switch from Captain Maldonado the boss to Sandy the friend, "Take good care of him, okay?"

"No worries," Dorian smiled and signed off. Just in time too, because he heard the unmistakable 'whump' noise of John falling over in his bedroom and a raspy curse.

He had been hoping that John would sleep for a few hours this morning after such a rough night. He waited for a moment to see if the other man would emerge or possibly go back to sleep. After a while he heard several banging noises emanating from the bedroom. That was his cue; he stood up and went back to see what his fever-addled partner was doing.

John had his leg back on, his uniform trousers, and was pulling a thin, ribbed black sweater down over his chest. "Hey," he said, "Get ready to go."

Dorian leaned against the door jamb with his arms folded. "Listen, you still have a fever. You haven't been able to digest anything, including liquids, in over a day." John rolled his eyes up into his head and continued to dress himself, breathing loudly in frustration. Dorian figured the man was running on pure adrenaline and stubbornness. "Also, you are desperately in need of a shower before you go back out in public. You just spent the night sweating and puking your guts up. You smell like a-"

John held up a hand, "Cool it with the colloquialisms." He closed his eyes to let a wave of nausea pass over him. Once it quivered away he said, "I've got a little bit of a touchy stomach. But I feel much better."

"Already called you in sick," Dorian shrugged, walking toward John, "Let me get your temperature."

"No." Anger flashed in his dark eyes and John frantically searched his immediate area for something to throw. He grabbed a shoe from the floor and held it up and behind his head. "I swear to god, Dorian, take one more step."

Dorian advanced none the less and John growled and threw his shoe right at his companion's head. The DRN shifted effortlessly, letting the heavy footwear fly past and crash behind him, knocking into a framed picture of John's father on the corner of the dresser. The picture shattered to the floor. "Feel better?" Dorian asked, he reached the seething human and placing a hand firmly on his forehead. John's brows knit together, creating a dark, ominous shelf over his eyes.

"You are burning up," Dorian declared. "Trust me, if you were well enough, I'd stuff you in the car and drag your ass to the anger management group. But you are sick and possibly getting sicker." It was the first time in this whole ordeal that Dorian seemed openly exasperated with the man.

"I don't need you here mothering me, motherfu-ah! Ahh, no." the livid patient gasped. He knelt and grabbed the calf of his real leg with both hands.

Worried and curious, Dorian performed a quick scan and could see the muscles in John's leg constricting beyond his control. "I think this is called a charley horse, it's a muscle cramp," the DRN needlessly informed, sitting on the edge of the bed to better examine this quirky human behavior, "Point your toe," he said eventually, "I found a forum online that suggests-"

"Oh my god, shut up," John said through clenched teeth, barely suppressing a moan. The muscle was constricted so tight that he was clenching the rest of his body in response and even had to remind himself to breathe. When the spasm finally did pass, he collapsed onto his back, his head in his closet, his chest swelling and falling as he gulped at the air. Once his breathing became calmer, John uncoiled in relief, pulled his left knee up to his chest, and massaged his leg with both hands.

The android stood up and looked down at his charge, the blue lights traveling around the sides of his face smoothly. "I'm worried John. This could be a sign of poor blood circulation. Let me talk to Rudy. Do you need help getting undressed for your shower?"

John groped wildly around his closet floor until his hand found the other shoe. When Dorian turned, his furious counterpart hurled the shoe at the back of his head like a football. The synthetic officer reeled and caught the shoe in mid-flight, right in front of his face, dropped the offending footwear carefully to the floor, and shook his head in disappointment, "There is glass on the floor again from the last shoe you threw," Dorian's icy demeanor permeated the room and sobered the sick man's irrational rage, "Be careful not to step on it." He stalked out of the room, dialing Rudy again.

The fever was messing with John's head. He thought for a split second that his father was in the room, but of course it had just been Dorian. He shook his head quickly, as if to erase the false image, and rubbed his eyes so deeply that he saw flashes of light shaped like nerve endings.

Realizing that he was on the floor still and embarrassed by his own behavior, John forced himself to sit up and frowned at the framed picture that he had knocked onto the floor. The splintered glass had formed a spider web over his dad's stern face, printed on aged, glossy paper. A relic of the past. Somehow, the eyes peering out between the cracks in the glass seemed to be giving him an all too familiar look.

The unyielding temperature in his body painted him with a permanent sheen of oily sweat. He knew damn well he was too sick to go to work. In fact, he felt too sick to make it back up onto his feet. There was a warm, wet trickle on his upper lip and John touched it with his fingers. His nose had begun to bleed again. Not wanting to deal with Dorian's reaction, he forced himself onto his feet and went into the bathroom to staunch the blood flow and to shower. He was desperately hungry, but anything that touched his stomach would be painfully ejected and followed by dry heaves that were so persistent he was developing high definition abdominal muscles from the useless contractions.

Dorian felt like a roomba. Once he heard the shower water running, he entered the temporarily emptied bedroom and swept the floors of loose glass. He stripped the bed sheets off and unsheathed the pillows, wadding up the damp layers and carrying them into the laundry room.

Searching every closet and drawer, he wondered how John managed to live with only one set of bed sheets. He was a living stereotype of the male bachelor. His fridge was full of nothing but beer and mustard and his rooms were furnished with boxy, mismatched furniture. He only had a few things hanging on his walls-aside from the new art installment in the trophy room of course, courtesy of John's mystery date.

Since the bed was out of commission, Dorian made a nest of blankets and pillows on the couch for John and laid out a pair of comfortable pajamas on the stripped-down bed. Rudy had yet to answer his call and self-appointed medic was getting impatient.

Through the door, he heard John retching in the bathroom again. He hadn't had anything but ice chips and Dorian was getting worried about his health and safety. When John emerged from his shower, his eyes looked blurry and red. His temporary android caretaker pointed to the couch and John went in silent obedience. This alone made Dorian worry. He dialed again inside his head and no one was picking up at the lab.

Finally, Dorian went to the desk and pulled up the phone on the blue airtouch screen. He flipped through the contacts and found Rudy's cell number and tapped to call. John peered from the couch but stayed put, surprised by how much he was affected by Dorian's earlier crossness with him.

Rudy answered, looking disheveled. "Why are you calling me on the video phone?" he asked, his hair sticking up straight on one side of his head.

"Are you still at home?" Dorian asked with disbelief.

"Why yes, yes I am!" Rudy snapped, rubbing at his right eye with the side of his fist, "All last night I had an obnoxious DRN calling me every 15 minutes to let me know the temperature of John Kennex's body, the color of his urine, and the humidity level in his bedroom. And demanding that I analyze all these things in my sleep!"

John heard that, he rediscovered his obstinacy. "You were taking my temperature while I slept?" he popped up off the couch and pointed an accusatory finger at Dorian.

"Oh good, at least someone got some sleep!" Rudy croaked, his voice deluged sarcasm. "Your bodily functions are the most unappealing alarm clock I've ever experienced."

Dorian leaned forward with his hands on the desk to look into the camera and refocus the conversation, paying little mind to the temper tantrum John was throwing or Rudy's whining, "Look, we've got a new development. I hope you're getting to the lab soon. There is a lot of work to do and John doesn't seem to be getting any better. He had a muscle spasm in his leg this morning."

Rudy put his hands in the air in frustration. A muscle cramp hardly seemed noteworthy. He sputtered a few half words, trying to think of the best response. Then he hung his head and resigned himself to the task at hand. Dorian wasn't going to leave him alone until Detective Kennex was back on his feet, blessing the streets with his trigger-happy scowl. In essence, his suffering would not end until John's suffering was ended.

"He hasn't been able to eat or drink in over 24 hours," Dorian added impatiently, "and his current temperature is-" He turned and pressed his fingers into John's forehead. John stood still, giving his robotic nursemaid an incredulous frown. He was suddenly acutely aware of how embarrassing this was and he slammed back to the couch hoping Rudy knew how to keep his trap shut. "103.4 degrees," Dorian finished, shock penetrating his voice. He looked John over for a silent moment, lips seamed together.

Rudy looked at the screen with a glazed stare, complete and utter apathy was the only thing he could manage in this state. "I'm heading in now," he promised. "Call me if John blows his nose or gets splinter." He cut the connection.

Dorian let loose a frustrated grunt and looked over at John. The poor man was miserable. The pajamas he had put on were clinging to his skin because he hadn't taken the time to dry off after his shower. To make matters worse, he was brooding like a surly teenager, "I can never show my face in Rudy's lab again. You've made me look like a complete fool."

"You are sick," Dorian chided, "I guarantee every human you work with has been sick before. They know just how you feel."

"And I guarantee," John huffed, "That they were sick all alone in their homes, without their co-workers performing creepy night time temperature readings," his voice was getting hoarse from the strain of the past day.

Dorian began to respond, but a knock at the door to the apartment stopped him. John groaned and pulled the blanket all the way up over his head. "Ignore them and they will go away." He wasn't in the mood to entertain any more guests. For all he knew, Mary Poppins was waiting on the other side of the door to sing him into submission.

It was a waste of breath because Dorian was already opening the door. He was greeted by an MX-43. "This is 5560 Sequoia Boulevard, the residence of Detective John Kennex."

Dorian wasn't sure if it was a statement or a question, "Uh yeah, that's right, man."

"Captain Maldonado requested that I deliver this package to detective Kennex's residence, to aid in his recovery," The MX informed the DRN in an impassive tone, holding out a plastic case.

Dorian cursed under his breath and dared to peek at John. The captain wasn't being very discreet afterall.

"Cap-? Captain Maldonado?" John asked, his voice a lilting staccato.

The MX stood there expressionless, holding out the plastic case. John pushed himself to his feet and addressed the heartless visitor, "What are you waiting for, a tip?"

The MX stood there expressionless, holding out the plastic case. Human expressions were lost on such a creature.

Infuriated, John patted the sides of his body searching for his gun. Thank goodness he was in his pajamas and had no nearby firearms.

"You can go now," Dorian said quickly, flashing a cursory smile and taking the large plastic briefcase from the MX. He shut the door on the emotionless robot before it could respond. John looked ready to pop. He was so furious that he was dizzy and had to sit down.

Attempting to calm John by distracting him, Dorian carried the case to the coffee table and opened it. Inside he found a medical scanner and an IV kit. "Intravenous rehydration," he smiled, lifting a bag of fluid from the case, "That was really nice of her."

"What did you tell her?" John asked, his eyes still closed, a mixture of pain and frustration tortured his brow. He pressed his fingers into the bridge of his nose on both sides, trying to physically strangle his headache out of existence.

Dorian pulled out the kit to start the IV on John's arm. He said in a cajoling, soothing voice,

"This is going to help you _so much_ and prevent me from having to take you to the hospital." Dorian took John's arm only to have it yanked back.

"You don't want me to get feeling better," John warned, "this illness is the only thing preventing me from having to take _you_ to the hospital." He twisted his face a little, "Uh, the robot hospital."

"You know you can't win this fight, John," Dorian scolded, "This_ is_ happening."

The synthetic man seized John's arm firmly and surrounded it with the metal cuff and clamped the device into place. John winced as the cuff found his vein and punctured it. Dorian attached a bag of fluid to the tube and hung it on the floating hook that accompanied the cuff. John fixed Dorian with a look of misery. For a split second, Dorian thought he saw the shimmer of unshed tears pooling in the detective's shining eyes. If they had been there, John blinked them away a split second later.

Kennex didn't need to know that Intravenous rehydration was usually reserved for children. It made Dorian feel better to see John getting fluids. "This is like an energy drink for your veins!" Dorian exclaimed, "It will replenish your electrolytes." The human in his care gave him a look that could frighten milk into cheese.

"You have to sit still until the whole bag is done," Dorian informed him, "It's a good time to take a nap," swiftly wiping John's brow for an excuse to read his temperature on the sly.

Kennex breathed loudly through his nose. "Stop measuring my temperature," he hissed, closing his eyes and sinking deeper into the couch, "Rudy doesn't need any more stats."

_Rudy_, Dorian calculated, a quick ripple of light slipping down his face. "Rudy must have informed her," the DRN said, having decided that the squirrely genius could handle the false accusation. He would make it up to the him later. "Maybe Captain Maldonado pressed him for information on what he was doing in his lab."

Kennex grunted and sleepily slurred, "Well, Rudy is a dead man," John was slipping into unconsciousness at last.

Dorian pushed an ottoman over and helped his desperately sick human put his feet up. He covered him with a blanket. The sound of his even breathing made Dorian feel overwhelmingly happy.

When the IV fluid was empty, Dorian gently removed the cuff from John's arm and placed a Band-Aid over the puncture wound. Through some miracle, John snoozed through the whole thing.

After moving the bed sheets into the dryer, Dorian contemplated going to the store and buying John some real food for when he was finally able to eat again. From his research, he wanted to get ingredients for a soup, saltine crackers, ginger ale, and some vitamins. But, he was afraid to leave John unsupervised. He considered slipping out while the impaired man slept, but he hated the idea that more symptoms could pop up while we was away.

It didn't matter anyhow. It wasn't long before a nasty coughing fit roused the suffering man. John's fever gave him no peace and now it seemed that a new symptom had emerged. Dorian took note and sent a report to Rudy who was back in action, yawning his way through his work.

John rubbed at his blurry eyes. He would never admit it, but the fluids made him feel a little bit better. He wasn't in the mood to make small talk with Dorian so he flipped through the television channels, ignoring anything his electric babysitter had to say. Nothing good on. He clicked off the TV and let the remote clatter to the floor. Drama felt good right now. More coughing agitated his already raw throat and made it sting like an open wound.

The moment seemed right to ask, so Dorian turned to John and wondered casually, "Do you think Detective Stahl would mind doing some light shopping on her way home?"

"I swear to god, Dorian. I will end you." John sat up on the couch and let the blanket fall away from him, "I'm so fucking serious right now."

Dorian nodded, "Okay, that is what I thought. Can I trust you to stay put while I go then?"

John contemplated the suggestion and nodded. Then he smiled and nodded again, "Yes, please go and get things." He nuzzled into the couch, "Maybe I'll finally be able to get some rest without being poked and prodded with your rubbery digits."

Dorian studied his own fingers briefly and shrugged. He lifted the blanket off the floor and arranged it around John. The detective simmered as he watched his partner tuck him in like a child. His mouth was dry and his throat was sore. He felt like he was boiling in his skin and his guts were knotted and so empty that his stomach groaned like an iceberg scraping the hull of a ship. However, the worst part of this whole ordeal, by far, was being treated like a baby by the man he worked with every day. Dorian would never look at him the same way again, John was certain.

His face must have betrayed his feelings because Dorian asked, "What are you thinking about?" as he nonchalantly picked up John's keys and slipped them into his pocket.

"Where to hide your body," John snapped, kicking his blankets off once more and flipping on his side, turning his back to Dorian to effectively end the conversation.

Of course, John couldn't know how important he was to Dorian and how little the Android cared about seeing him in his jammies, the fever-induced night terrors, resting his sweat-soaked forehead on the cool, forgiving seat of the toilet in between vomiting sessions, or any other embarrassing human activities taking place. Dorian's fierce protection of John was as natural to him as, well, blue lights.

Gathering everything he needed, Dorian examined John once more, drinking in his current condition. Finally he gave a curt nod and said, "I'll be back in a flash. Stay right where you are. Call me if anything changes, please."

John waited a minute or two after Dorian left. Convinced his gaoler was sufficiently far away, he stood up and rapidly tapped himself on the sides of his face to wake up. He yawned and stretched and adjusted himself openly. Okay, time to get to work. His body resisted movement but he forged ahead in spite of his churning discomfort.

Something had been nagging at him all through the long night. Trapped in his bed and sick, it was impossible to turn off his mind, which seemed to run at twice the normal speed when his body was slowed down. All night he obsessed over his lost cell phone. The woman he was with _must _have taken it.

John dug through his desk and found a tablet he had brought home from work. He set the GPS locator and scanned for his own cell phone. A bright marker lit up on the screen and the computer supplied the address. "Fucking got you," John grinned. She must be an idiot not to remove the SIM card immediately.

He mustered the strength and determination to do what he needed to do. His illness seemed to be getting much worse and he was worried that it was just going to increase until his skin boiled off and he died. He had witnessed it in super speed with Detective Vogel who had been trapped in a plastic and metal box. He wasn't going to sit here and die while Dorian watched and fretted.

He pulled on a pair of jeans and an undershirt. His tactical vest was next but Dorian had removed his gun. He smirked to himself. Did Dorian really think that was his _only _gun? He took a pistol out of his safe and checked it, loaded it, and stuck it in the holster. Over that he slipped on an oversized sweatshirt and dug a baseball cap out of his closet that had been his father's. A good enough disguise for now, his sallow face seemed like a mask anyhow.

He found his keys missing and correctly assumed that Dorian had taken his car. He cursed for a minute and accepted a wave of pain in his gut, leaning into the nearby wall. When it passed, he wrenched open his apartment door and headed down to the street. Public transportation was not an option with weapons scanners on every bus and subway door. He waited for a cab to pass him by and flagged it down. The air outside was refreshing at first, a nice break from the stuffy air in his apartment. However, he was grateful when a cab finally rolled up to the curb and he could escape the feel of wind on his tender skin and the sun beating on his shoulders.

The pain in his head made him wince, but he soldiered on. He gave the address on the GPS locator to the driver. When they started to move, he was racked another coughing fit that sent jolts of pain through his body. Fighting an urge to beg the driver to take him back to his home, he steeled himself for the journey ahead.

"You don't look so good, buddy," the cabbie commented, shifting a quick glance toward the back seat.

John gave him a dangerous look. "Just drive," he snapped.

**End Chapter 2**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

**. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .**

_Grocery shopping!_ Dorian thought with a little too much enthusiasm. He entered the brightly lit store and drew a cart from the line. Pushing his way to the produce section, he accessed a recipe that he had found online for hearty chicken soup. _"Just like grandma used to make!" _raved one of the commenters at the bottom of the website. That, in his opinion, was a fine endorsement.

Dorian slid the cart along, accessing data that he never had to use before, such as, _What a ripe tomato feels like _and _Grocery store etiquette for an over-crowded aisle. _

Off duty, out in the world, he felt like he was blending in with the human population all on his own. Women smiled at him as he passed and only occasionally, when searching databanks, did he break the illusion of being a real human.

If only it was his own bitcoin in his pocket instead of John's.

Spending time in the supermarket was such a nice feeling that Dorian found himself regretting the fact that he had to hurry back to his surly patient. However, he dutifully shopped for food and medicine and didn't stroll as slowly as he would have liked. It was his first time in a grocery store and he found himself somewhat reflective on human nature. There was a whole aisle dedicated to cookies. The selection was amazing and there were so many kinds and flavors that he wouldn't know where to begin if given the chance to actually taste one. Even if he could try one, there would be countless others available elsewhere: homemade cookies, coffee shop cookies, bakery cookies, cookies with ice cream on top. Perhaps that was the problem with the human race. _Too many choices_.

Waiting to go through the scanners so he could make his purchases and hurry back, Dorian found his mind stuck firmly on John Kennex. The man was coarse and uncompromising and yet, as fragile and broken as any human he had encountered. Dorian was charged with protecting him and, in a much less overt way, monitoring him in the field. However, his feelings reached far beyond his obligations as a law enforcement officer. He wanted to find a way to glue John's pieces back together and—

There was a tap on his shoulder. "Buddy, you're holding the line," a middle-aged woman griped, gesturing to the open scanner, "Quit day dreaming."

"Sorry," Dorian smiled and won her over almost immediately. He approached the scanner and ran his items through, placing them in bags. Feeling remarkably, wonderfully ordinary, he Inserted John's bits into the computer to pay for his purchases and headed for the car.

Driving in the cruiser by himself, his own music on the radio, windows down, and no human along for the ride made Dorian feel a new sensation he hadn't experienced before. He searched for the right term to describe it and the best answer he found was _liberated_.

The all-too-short trip finished, he carried the bags into John's apartment with great care not to make too much noise. He placed the perishables in the fridge, removing a few _perished _things from the back in the process. John's pantry was empty except for a canister of oatmeal—which Dorian opened to discover it full of beer bottle caps. The inside door to the cabinet was smattered with a collection of Pan-Asian fusion restaurant delivery pamphlets. Dorian studied it for a second and shook his head, stacking crackers and bread onto the barren shelves.

Once everything was put away, Dorian tip-toed to the couch to test John's temperature and heart rate. John wasn't there. He wasn't in the bathroom, bedroom, or the ransacked trophy room. In fact, he was nowhere to be found. Dorian ripped through each room with growing panic and frustration. He had been at the store for less than thirty minutes!

Accessing the locator chip on John's badge, he discovered the signal close. So close, in fact, that he found the chip lying on the desk on top of a cell-o. Dorian picked up the clear plastic cell-o and flexed it on. The thin sheet lit up and displayed a hand-written note from John. It read:

_Feeling better. Went to get a hot dog. _

_Thanks for everything. Use my bits to get a cab._

He slammed the cell-o back onto the desk as much as one could slam the thin slip of a device.

"Fucking humans."

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

John made it most of the way to his destination before the infuriated cabby pulled over and threw him out onto the street, screaming "Out! Out! Get the fuck out!" ranting about infectious diseases. John had tried not to start retching in the back of the cab, but the man took turns like a maniac.

Stumbling once again in hot air, he was plagued with another bout of coughing that rocked his body and made his throat feel raw. Thanks to the intravenous hydration, he was sweating again and the back of his sweatshirt was soaked through. The image of Detective Vogel's face, the skin melting off the bone, trapped in that godforsaken box, beleaguered his mind. The cab screeched away and John walked to a nearby stoop and took a seat on the stone steps to recover. The way he felt, maybe Vogel had it easier. He received a worried stare from a passerby who sped up when she saw him lift his head. He realized how rough he looked at the moment.

He got to his feet and willed himself to walk the three remaining blocks to reach his destination. Slinking quickly past a street vendor selling something that smelled strong and threatened to send him into another round of vomiting, John hunched his shoulders and suddenly felt like he had crossed over to the other side from the law. He hurdled himself toward his goal, unsure of what awaited him and unable to think about it too much. He focused all of his energy on keeping his head down so the brim of his cap would block his face and placing one foot in front of the other.

As he trudged, his mind traveled to Dorian. He was probably at the apartment having a shit fit. The thought made John smile in a way that he couldn't explain.

More coughing. _Fuck_ he was tired.

And weak. He felt weak. He preoccupied his mind by letting it wander. It took the focus off of his aching joints. He imagined the cruiser pulling up to the curb and juddering to a halt. Dorian jumping out looking worried, maybe a little mad, but mostly concerned. Rushing to him, shaking sense into him, dragging him back home. A shower. Pajamas. Cool bed sheets. Getting out of these fucking shoes. A long lecture? Maybe if it came with a back massage. Oh, that would be so nice right now, he sighed long and lazy. His body ached for rest and relief.

_No, wait_. _Jesus!_

He _didn't_ want that, he reminded himself. He must be delirious with fever.

His silly daydream had forced him to pass his destination and he had to turn around and go back a few doors. _Scatterbrained,_ he thought. He examined the dingy door leading into a brick building from the last century. The infrastructure in this district had old but sturdy bones. Above the door was an LED light sign of a hand with an eyeball in the palm.

"What the hell does that mean?" John said, seating himself on a bench nearby to gather his thoughts. If Dorian were here, he would know. He shook his head and banished Dorian to the back of his mind; it was time to handle the task at hand. From his stomach erupted a noise that he was certain could be heard from outer space. John placed two hands on his abdomen in an attempt to mollify it and rose to his feet. Now was as good a time as any.

He gave himself an internal pep talk. The brim of his hat was soaked with sweat but he adjusted it on his head anyhow, puffed out his chest, unclipped the button that held his gun in place, and strode toward the building.

John almost jumped out of his skin when he ran into a beaded curtain just on the other side of the door. _Smooth_, he thought, untangling himself.

"Welcome to Madam May's—" a perky voice began but sputtered off upon his arrival. "Shit. Shit. Shit."

A blond woman slipped quickly behind a tri-fold screen, making a frightened noise that almost sounded like someone stepping on a cat.

"Come out," John said, he peered around the room. Shelves were draped with tatty fabrics and glittering knick knacks. In the very middle of the space stood a round table with a glass orb perched on top. She was some kind of bullshit fortune teller, John realized; he should have been able to decipher that from the sign out front.

He drew his gun from his vest and held it level as he got closer to the trembling screen that hid the woman from his sight. He stopped short, seeing a dress hanging on the back wall. It tugged at his memory. The table by it held a brown wig draped over the top of a tacky lamp.

"It was you," John said, his voice an intimidating growl. "Come out. Don't make me come get you. You won't like it." He felt good, adrenaline perking him up and causing him to temporarily forget his ailments.

The enigmatic blond woman stepped from behind the screen, her wide eyes looked frightened. "Yes, it was me," she announced defiantly, her face flinched only for a flicker of a second.

"Why?" John demanded. He stuffed his gun back in its holster. She looked manageable.

She stood like a statue. John couldn't tell if she was thinking or if she was going into shock. He took a few steps toward her and she fled to the opposite side of the room. "Stay back," she threatened weakly.

John tried to corner her but found himself playing cat and mouse around the round table. It got old very quickly and he realized he was not as agile as he usually was when he knocked into the table with his thigh and the "crystal orb" shifted and rolled to the floor with a crash, dusting the boards and rug with clouded glass. Any direction John went, the woman went the opposite. Finally, the chase took its toll on the sick detective and he began to cough uncontrollably, wrapping his elbow in front of his mouth to contain the painful bursts.

The woman watched, chewing her lip and playing with the buttons on her oversized sweater. She was wearing gauzy layers and, her hair was wavy with curls gathered messily atop her head. "Detective Kennex, are you sick?" she asked, genuine innocence in her voice. Obnoxiously, she seemed somewhat concerned.

Kennex's eyes grew wide from behind his arm. Once the coughing subsided, he lowered his elbow and saw a mess of blood on his sweatshirt. He held his arm out to her so she could see the blood; it was an accusatory gesture. "_Am I sick?_" he demanded emphatically, "Are you serious?"

She didn't seem to know what to say. She stood across the table from him and looked distressed. John examined her with disgust. She was young; young enough that he was embarrassed for bringing her home at all. He couldn't remember how it all went down, but he felt uncomfortable standing before her now.

"You drugged me," he spat, "and now I'm going to fucking die." He indicated the blood on his sleeve. In movies, people who coughed up blood were dying; Kennex was convinced.

Her bright eyes looked misty and she shook her head no dramatically, as if she couldn't believe the words.

John continued, "If I'm going to die, I want to know why. What in the hell did I ever do to you?"

"I didn't know," she sniffled, "They said it would just knock you out for a few hours. I never wanted to-"

John felt like throwing up. He swallowed the feeling and closed his eyes for a second. When he opened them, the girl was still standing there, dripping with tears. "_They_ who?"

"This guy. I don't know his name. He got me some files on you and suggested the pills and…" she said, her breath hitching, "I have the pills." She found her purse on the floor where it had been knocked and dug through it frantically, coming up with a small blue bottle. "Here," she said, thrusting it toward him across the table.

"I just wanted to knock you out for a little bit and mess up your place. I wasn't trying to kill anybody. I mean, not like _you_ did to _me_, I'm not a _monster_ like that. Well, I guess _now_ maybe I am, but I wanted you to know that you were a bad person and—I'm sorry I ramble when I get nervous. I just can't stop talking. Well, I mean, you know that already. Of course," she was gulping at the air like a fish.

John picked up a knocked over chair and sat down. He coughed into his soiled elbow again and inspected it for more blood. Shaking his head, he took off his hat and threw it down on the table. "Do I know you or something?" he drawled, his voice saturated with misery. He clutched the pill bottle like it was a live grenade.

She screwed up her face, "Well, I was in your protection last year." He looked up at her through red-rimmed eyes, a blank look on his face. "Maya? Maya Vaughn?" She asked, attempting to jog his memory; she pressed a hand to her chest. He shrugged his shoulders, still studying her face with a vacuous glaze. She sighed and ticked her head to the side, "I was a witness in a murder trial?" _Nothing._ "I'm a medium psychic," she muttered mindlessly as if she was tired of the phrase, "But on good days I'm a petite psy—"

"Oh my _god_!" John said, recognition finally setting in. "What did I ever do to you besides save your fucking life?" Coughing again, he rested his head on the table in front of him.

Maya pulled a chair up and sat across from him. "You killed my parents." He lifted his head up, a mess of sweat remaining on the table before him. Every swallow stung his throat and his mouth tasted like a battery from the blood. "You may not have meant to do it but you did. You did, detective." Her voice quivered, a mixture between sadness and fury.

John studied her, struggling to feel an emotion, _any emotion_ other than desperation and anger. He raked at his soaking scalp with his fingernails. "I didn't," was all he could manage to say. He wondered if nausea could count as an emotion.

"You did. You killed them the day you lost your leg," she fumbled in her purse for a tissue and blew her nose loudly, "they were just driving in the wrong place at the wrong time. The police hid it from me, told me they were in a freak car accident."

John was jealous of the tissue. _God_ he wanted a tissue. "How do you know, then?" he asked, rubbing at his nose with his sweatshirt. He was well past manners at this point.

"You have a terrible memory, Detective. I'm a medium psychic," she stated flatly. "Your partner, the man who _actually _saved my life, he got me the box of evidence from my parents' house fire."

"And?" his voice came out in a scratch. John was so impatient. He wished now that he hadn't come. It seemed like he was destined to be talked to death no matter where he was. His throat ached and throbbed dully with his heartbeat.

"When I touch objects, I can talk to the dead. I had the cerebellex procedure." She snapped, "Try to keep up." She sniffed, her confidence returning.

John's head hurt so bad his vision seemed blurry. "Okay," he croaked, "you touched the evidence and your parents _told_ you that I killed them. Me, specifically?"

"Well, no," she shifted in her seat uncomfortably, "they told me they were killed in a big police operation. I paid someone to get the files, the same man who gave me the pills. I read them and found out that you lead the investigation and the raid. Your facts were poorly gathered and your entire team perished except for you. You were injured but they investigated the incident for months to determine if you had been working with the Insyndicate." She seemed proud of herself.

"I lost my goddamned leg," Kennex countered, "I was in a coma. I can't even remember what happened."

"Well, I'm telling you that my parents were in the crossfire and now they are dead." She was getting weepy again.

"Well, do me a favor," Kennex said, "keep hold of my cell phone so I can chat with you from beyond the grave. I'd really like to keep in touch." His sarcasm seemed to injure her. _Good,_ he thought.

He stood up and put the pill bottle in his pocket. He felt drained and sitting was only making him tired.

Trying to decide what to do next, he suddenly felt grossly under-prepared.

"There is that red energy you have," Maya said. She ignored John's glower and reached out to pick up his hat where he had set it on the table. John watched, annoyed.

While she held his hat, she began to smile. John looked at her face and his lip quivered, "What do you have to smile about?"

"This was your dad's hat," she said softly, John paused his speeding mind and watched her. "He says you need to get home. You're sick and you're wasting time."

"Tell him I said _thanks_," John rasped back, "It is so convenient that my _father_ wants me to leave so you can escape," he fitted the word _father_ with air quotes. His sweatshirt was a mess of blood and sweat and he looked ready to pass out.

"He says you have a big mouth," she smiled, listening to nothing. John scowled. "He says your mouth has always caused you problems."

John clenched his jaw. His mind was reeling from his illness and his body was so sick that he was shaking.

"Your dad says that when you were a Freshman, you wanted to quit the football team," she had such a pleasant look on her face while telling the story, John couldn't stop his lips from curling over his teeth in disgust, "You wanted to quit, and he took you on a camping trip and talked you out of it. It was on that trip that you told him you wanted to be a police officer and he told you that you had to shape up."

John coughed weakly, wincing. He rubbed at his throat. The room threatened to start spinning.

"I've honestly been better," she said to no one, conversationally. "You are really sweet, Mr. Kennex. No, don't worry, he hasn't hurt me. Yes, _very _rude."

John grabbed at his own hair in frustration.

Maya was smiling wide, having a nice, fun, fake chat with his dearly departed dad. "Okay, I'll tell him, but he won't like it," she looked at John again, "Your dad says you need to get over Anna." She paused a beat, "Who's Anna?"

John walked over and ripped the hat from her slender fingers. She sighed and folded her hands. "Your dad seems really nice. He loves you, you know?" John resisted the urge to deliver a slap to the annoying extrasensory. The thought curdled in his stomach, imaging his father's reaction to him hitting a woman made his chest ache.

There was a faint buzz from the inside of Maya's purse on the table and she dug through it and retrieved John's cell phone. "This has been blowing up for like twenty minutes," she said, brandishing the skinny device. "I knew you had my number in this thing so I took it. It was dumb, I should have just left it but I was afraid you were going to wake up," handing it back to him. "Sorry."

"Well, it helped me find you," he snapped it from her hand and looked at it, his eyes focusing and refocusing on the screen. Seventeen missed calls from Dorian.

Dorian. _Dorian. _

"Oh crap," John said, and no sooner had the words left his mouth, a loud bang announced the arrival of a boot, entering the room from where its owner had needlessly kicked the flimsy door. It hung loose on its hinges. Dorian entered noisily, ripping the beaded curtain from the ceiling and sending wooden beads spilling across the floor. He pointed his gun at the two people inside, his jaw set hard. He had the look of a man who was prepared for anything.

Maya stuck her hands up in the air obediently and stared; her mouth hung open.

John backed up a few quick steps and stumbled over a ridiculously plush footstool. He landed on the floor with a thud. He and Maya were gawping at Dorian with the same amount of terrified anticipation. John's ragged breathing turned into a painful cough.

"Maya Vaughn," Dorian said, recognizing the perky psychic even before his facial scanners could get a proper read. He holstered his gun and walked over to John, grabbed his arm, lifted him back onto his feet, and pushed him up against the wall. He ignored Maya completely.

The android did not let go of John's wrist, looking at the blood on his sweatshirt in dismay. With an annoyed grunt, he slapped a hand on John's clammy forehead. John didn't need to be told he still had a fever, he was well aware of the fact. However, something told him that he ought to keep his opinion to himself.

Maya still held her arms in the air while Dorian scanned John for internal injuries. "Your throat is bleeding," he said stonily.

John nodded while attempting to avoid looking directly into the other man's eyes. When he accidentally did, the intense blues that met him told John all he needed to know. Dorian was _furious_.

"How did you find me?" John asked, stupidly, trying to get his partner talking. Talking calmed people. He had no idea if it would have that effect on Dorian.

"I just followed the trail of broken glass," Dorian said, gesturing to the shattered orb on the floor.

John smiled, but it wasn't returned. His scalp prickled with the tension in the room. He searched his mind for something redeeming to share. His earlier, accidental fantasy about Dorian rescuing him from himself dissipated as false and foolish. This was fucking scary. "The pills," John said, pausing to cough painfully, "The-uh-I found the pills she gave me." He dug in his pocket for the bottle and gave it a shake. They rattled around. Dorian seized them.

"I didn't mean to get him sick," Maya cried, bringing her hands down slowly. Dorian turned to face her and she cringed, shrinking away. "Please don't hurt me. It was supposed to just knock him out for a few minutes. They lied to me."

"Okay," Dorian said.

"Okay?" Maya and John asked in unison, both shocked.

"Don't leave town, I'll have questions," Dorian said curtly, making sure she nodded in understanding. He seized John's upper arm, beneath his armpit, and half dragged, half carried him to the exit.

"Wait, what?!" John cried, resisting fruitlessly, "Arrest her! She tried to kill me, Dorian. _She wrecked my shit_."

Dorian paused and looked around Maya's place of business. "I think you got even with her for that," he said, accepting no more stalling. He pulled John outside where the car was parked halfway up on the curb.

"What are you doing with my car, Dorian, look at how its—oof!" John's complaints were cut off when Dorian dumped him against the front side of the car. "Hey watch it!" John said, but it came out as a whine. He nearly lost his balance, putting his palms on the cruiser for stability.

Dorian came up from behind and bent John forward, slamming his chest down against the hood of the car. John breathed heavily, the side of his face resting on the dirty, hot metal. He felt the android force a knee between his thighs, spreading his legs apart and effectively pinning him into position.

John was helpless to resist. He lifted his head up off the hood and saw people across the street watching the spectacle. Maybe if he squeezed his eyes shut he could block them out.

Dorian captured John's left arm and twisted it behind him, trapping his wrist to the small of his back mercilessly and clapping a cuff in place. He leaned his weight into John, pressing him into the car to keep him in the compromising position and gathered his other arm.

John struggled in vain, "Don't," he seethed. Dorian finished cuffing him and lifted him up off the hood of the cruiser. He turned John around with a firm hand on his arm. Without a word, he dragged the detective to the back seat of the car, opened the door, and practically tossed him inside.

Climbing in the driver's seat, Dorian started up the car, turned on the flashers, and pulled out into the parting rows of traffic.

The android behind the wheel of _his_ car was enough to make John's already hot blood bubble. He strained against the handcuffs but they were tight and made his wrists ache. "Dorian," he said, twisting his torso and shoulders back and forth wildly in an effort to combat his rising discomfort from being bound at the wrists. It was a mistake. His abdominal muscles were so pulled and sore from two solid days of heaving that they sent stinging fingers of pain racing across his body as retribution. Grimacing, he ignored the burning ache and continued, "Let's just get one thing straight. You didn't save me from anything back there, goddammit," John spat.

Dorian just gripped the wheel firmly and drove. John was expecting an argument. Silence was something he wasn't prepared for.

"Listen," John continued, despite having not been interrupted. He meant it to sound threatening but his voice wasn't cooperating; he was pleading.

Dorian leaned forward slightly to flip a switch that placed a light barrier between the front seats and the back seat of the cruiser, effectively separating himself from John as they would any perp.

_Conversation over._

Dorian punched at the steering wheel a few times as he drove them along. He wanted to hit something.

_No. He wanted to hit John. _

Knock sense into him. Show him how unacceptable his little excursion was, how dangerous.

_Punish him. _

He flashed his bright blue eyes to the mirror to examine his partner who was slumped in his seat, arching his back and cursing-at least it looked like he was cursing.

_Foolish. Stupid. Infantile. Disobedient. Reckless. _

The synthetic officer needed to calm himself down before they arrived back at the apartment. He pulled up John's record and poured over it. "Suffering from depression, mental atrophy, trauma-onset OCD, PTSD, and the psychological rejection of his synthetic body part," he read it and said it aloud. John couldn't hear him.

_Okay. That helped. _

Dorian felt his resolve softening. John had been through too much already and now this illness threatened the already thin fibers that held his fragile psyche together.

_Still. _

He was an idiot to chase down his own cell phone as sick as he was, without backup. He was so lucky that little Maya Vaughn was waiting on the other side of that door and not someone far more sinister. A stolen cell phone with a SIM card still in meant that the person who stole it was clueless or wanted to be followed. It could have been a trap. The man walked into danger more often than he walked into a grocery store.

Checking the mirror again, Dorian saw John on his side across the seat; coughing. Unable to cover his mouth, the poor man just shook with each hack. It was so utterly pathetic; the DRN had to avert his gaze. Thank goodness they were almost home.

In the backseat, John felt so exhausted. Dorian had placed the barrier up and shut him out. He closed his eyes a moment and rolled his forehead along the worn vinyl of the seat.

His mind was sloshing over everything that had happened in the past few days. Could that girl really have talked to his dad? Hell no. Did he cause her parents' death? …probably. That mission was totally fucked from start to finish. Thinking about it made John's head throb even harder. When he felt the threat of tears he forced himself to sit up and sniffed. Anger was better than sadness.

Dorian saw John sit up in the mirror as they pulled into the parking structure. He was getting worried about his wayward human. He looked worse than ever. Dorian felt a pang of guilt; maybe he had gone too far.

Then again, the man needed a lesson.

Dorian parked the car in the designated spot and turned off the engine. He got out and opened the back door. John got out of the car slowly and carefully. Dorian turned him around gently and took the handcuffs off. John rubbed his wrists and muttered, "Thanks." It seemed like a gentle breeze could knock him right over.

Dorian nodded his head toward the elevator.

John headed that way. After a few steps he turned to see if the DRN was following him or not. Much to his relief, Dorian was right behind him. When they arrived to the apartment, Dorian helped John inside, dropped the keys in the bowl and shrugged out of his coat. John stood there leaning against the wall in his blood stained sweatshirt. He wasn't sure what to do. Dorian's silence terrified him.

"I know, I fucked up," John said, studying the floor. He was a bloody, sweaty mess. Worse still, his fever was unacceptably high and he was dangerously dehydrated.

Despite wrestling feelings of his own, Dorian recognized the necessity of calming the overwrought human. However, the kid gloves were officially off. He placed two fingers over the electronic lock on the apartment door and reconfigured the code, trails of blue light traveling along his hand.

John watched with his eyebrows cocked. "Locking me in?" he asked wearily.

"Couch," Dorian said, pointing to the sofa. When John just stood there looking irritated, the android took a deep, unnecessary breath and said, "To the couch, John. Sit down. Please, don't test me right now." Despite the subject matter, Dorian's hushed voice was like a medicine after the stony silence in the car.

John weighed his options, buying time by pulling off his shoes and socks and dropping them in a pile. Once he realized that he had no options, he padded over to the couch and sat down. It felt so good to be off his feet and back in his apartment.

Dorian retrieved a Gatorade from the fridge and brought it to John. "Small, slow sips," he instructed. John twisted off the cap and took a gulp. "Take off your sweatshirt."

"Look," John said, holding his hands palms out, "I get it; you're a tough guy now."

Dorian leaned forward, snatched the Gatorade back, and unzipped the sweatshirt himself. Once he had wrestled it off of the man, he tossed it to the floor. The humanoid looked at the gun, holstered and hanging against John's ribs, and confiscated it.

Dorian was too strong and too fast for any kind of resistance.

"Goddammit," John said, browbeaten. He didn't appreciate being forcibly undressed and disarmed.

Dorian clamped the IV cuff on John's arm and hung a bag of liquids. John flinched at the pinching pain of the needle finding his vein.

The surly android handed the Gatorade back. "Once the IV is done, you can take a cool bath."

John wanted a hot shower. He wanted to rip the IV cuff off. He wanted the Gatorade to stay in his stomach. He wanted to feel better. Most of all, he wanted Dorian to stop being mad at him.

"Don't move with that thing in your arm," Dorian said and launched himself up and into the bathroom to draw a bath. The sides of his face were dancing with lights.

John sat on the couch looking dismal. Then came an all too familiar feeling. _Nosebleed._ He sighed heavily and bent to grab his wadded up sweatshirt off the floor, rubbing the blood off his face with it. _In for a penny, in for pound._


	4. Chapter 4

**Sick Leave: Chapter 4**

**. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .**

John soaked in the bathtub for as long as he could stand the ice cold water. Dorian wanted him to stay in longer, but the sick man had urgent business to attend to: the neon green sports drink had found its way back up his esophagus. When he was done emptying his stomach, he laid on the cool bathroom floor and closed his eyes. His throat stung more than ever.

He pressed his shoulder blades into the stone tiles and arched his spine. He was perspiring again, the cool bath had temporarily broken his fever. He searched his mind for a way to make Dorian less cross with him and came up blank. Finally, he forced himself to his feet, brushed his teeth, inspected himself in the mirror, and then stepped into pajama pants. When John walked out of the bathroom, Dorian was right there waiting. He had his coat on.

"Are you okay?" the DRN asked softly. Watching John shiver in the tub and then puke his guts out had extinguished his anger. He was deeply concerned.

"Where are you going?" John rasped, a small amount of apprehension finding its way into his voice. He leaned against the brick wall and gave Dorian a nervous, sidelong glance. He was far from okay but didn't feel like talking about it.

Dorian held up the blue pill bottle for John to see and smiled reassuringly, "I have to get these to Rudy."

The apartment was dark now that the sun had disappeared behind the wall. The glass windows on the ceiling let in the grayish blue pollution of light from the city at night. "Can't you just swallow a pill and send it to him digitally, or inject it into your neck, or whatever you do?" John asked, his head was swimming and his lower back ached but he felt a release of emotional tension now that the DRN and he were once again on speaking terms.

Dorian afforded John a lopsided smile and walked around the darkening living space, snapping on lights. John felt like the ordeal at that psychic's house was a week ago, not a mere few hours.

"I'm not equipped with a mass spectrometer, John," Dorian said, looking a little impatient, "Most of the MXs have them, of course."

"Do I detect jealousy?" John asked in a chafed voice, a grin developing on his face. He pushed himself off the wall and walked out to the living room, past the old heat stove in the middle of the space. He liked that Dorian seemed relaxed again. He no longer looked wound up with fury like he had when they first got home.

The DRN scoffed, "Hardly." He picked up a blanket from the floor and folded it up and placed it back over the arm of the couch, "Reading isotropic signatures? That is a job for a mindless machine."

"Sure would come in handy right now, though," John said. His leg felt like jelly from the cold bath. He made his way toward the couch but his synthetic toes tilted into the rug at the wrong angle and pitched him forward. It was a rookie mistake, one he hadn't made since his first few weeks of walking with his new limb.

Responding quickly, Dorian intercepted John's fall before he could tumble too far forward. He stepped in front of the man and caught him under the arms, holding him up easily. Left to fall, John would have crashed right through the glass coffee table. Dorian was convinced that John was going to kill himself on glass one of these days. He looked around the apartment and was dismayed by the ridiculous number of displays, windows, and tabletops ripe for smashing.

"I got you," Dorian said, holding John tight while he righted his feet. Dorian was reluctant to let go. Watching John get sick, losing him in the city, cuffing him, dragging him home, and worrying about his health had taken its toll on his synthetic soul. Through all of it, he had been resisting the urge to wrap the feeble human in his arms and hold onto him. Well, if he was being honest, when John went off to find Maya alone he had wanted to wrap his hands around his _throat_, but that had passed.

So, as luck would have it, he found himself holding John right there in the middle of the living room. Unwilling to let the moment pass, he pulled his partner closer, rubbing small, deep circles into his aching shoulders.

John closed his eyes and grunted in satisfaction as Dorian's strong fingers worked at the knots in his back. The sturdy arms surrounding him had a foreign feeling to the ailing detective. Not because the arms were synthetic, but simply because they were _arms_ and they were holding onto _him_. It had been quite a while since John had received or accepted this kind of attention from another person.

As far as he was concerned, he had already embarrassed himself in front of Dorian in every way imaginable. So he decided to go with what he was feeling and melted against the DRN's firm chest, resting the side of his head on the broad shoulder in front of him. John told himself he was doing this by way of apology for leaving on his own, but deep down he knew this was what he really needed.

Wanted. _Fuck._

A quiet moment passed before John seemed to remember who he was and pushed out of the android's grasp. He looked away, flustered. Dorian slowly placed a hand on John's forehead, his face glowing as he transmitted the data.

"Your bed has nice, fresh sheets," Dorian said, mercifully breaking the growing silence. "Go get in it, John."

John was tense and grateful for the chance to escape, "I think I might."

Dorian patted his shoulder supportively, "I have to go to Rudy's to drop the pills off, the sooner the better."

"Have fun," Kennex said, wincing with a cough. He felt like a wisp of his former self. The trip to get his cell phone had completely drained him. Now, his totally fucked up emotional state had him hugging people. Androids, even.

"Please get in bed," Dorian said again. "And why not put your leg on the charger while you rest?"

"I always do," John said, growing suspicious.

It dawned on John that Dorian was waiting for him to get in bed so he could go and deliver the pills. Reminding him to take off his leg was just a means of hobbling him.

"Look, I won't go anywhere," John said, shoving Dorian back a foot with both hands, "I feel like shit. I'm not going to leave."

"I'm sorry," Dorian said, knowing he was caught, "But I can't trust you and I'm getting worried about your safety. Another foray out into the city streets and you may not come back." He pointed to the bedroom, "Your sheets are nice and clean and—"

John's mood snapped, rage bubbling to the surface. "Oh fuck you, Pinocchio," John growled, storming to the bedroom with Dorian at his heels. He sat on the edge of his bed and detached his leg, shoving it off onto the floor with a 'thunk.' He dragged himself into the middle of the bed. "Maybe if you hurry up and save me, your fairy godmother will turn you into a _real _boy." John manhandled his pillow, giving it a few punches before settling.

The words stung and a pained look rolled across Dorian's face like a storm. He looked down at his human charge but John was staring pensively out the large windows along his bedroom wall, looking at the dark water right outside. The moon laid a band of light across the rippling surface. Dorian drew his bottom lip under his front teeth and thought. He didn't want to do this but today he learned that he really couldn't trust John.

He picked up the synthetic leg off the floor and placed it in the charger gently. Then he said, "I will give you a choice."

John rolled his head over to stare at Dorian, "A choice? Oh, this is a new development."

Dorian wished John understood how vast his choices in life actually were, but that was a discussion for another day. "You can let me handcuff you to the bed—"

"_OR?_" John asked, sitting up while he shouted at the preposterous proposal.

"Or," Dorian continued evenly, "I can call an MX here to come stand guard."

"You've got to be kidding me," John said quietly and trailed off. Then he said, "Please, I really just want to sleep. I feel like I'm dying. I am not going anywhere. I can't imagine where I would go. I am sure Maya is ten towns over by now."

Dorian was hesitant to trust John, but decided that he couldn't keep handcuffing him. Also, the captain probably wouldn't release an MX to watch him, knowing how trigger happy the borgish machines made John. "Okay," he conceded, "But promise to get some rest. You look like your own ghost." Dorian helped John under the covers despite protests.

"One more temperature read before I go?"

"Just go," John grumped, hunkering down beneath the sheets and closing his heavy eyes, "take a cab."

As an afterthought and a final precaution, Dorian reached into his own eye socket and removed his eyeball, a remote camera. A bright blue light shone from inside the open port on his face. He stealthily placed the camera on the nightstand. This would let him keep watch over John during the trip to see Rudy; at least as long as he could keep the range. "I've got my eye on you," he smiled. John didn't seem to notice.

Locking the door behind him, he left the apartment hoping that John would just stay in bed and rest. He took the cruiser.

Dorian skipped the radio on his drive over. Instead, he was monitoring John with his covert camera. The sick man tossed and turned in the sheets, wrestling them into a better position. He tried his right side then his left and back again, laid flat on his back, and even attempted to rest on his stomach. The fever was keeping him awake, and the hunger that he couldn't satisfy, and the nausea that he couldn't shake. Dorian also suspected that John was wrestling with guilt over leaving to find his cell phone earlier in the day, but he was incorrect in assuming that. He wished John was getting better rest, but he was pleased that he was staying in bed.

Arriving at the lab, Dorian found Rudy sound asleep on the table that usually held his android patients. Dorian poked at the technical supervisor of the synthetic dispatch division gently. Rudy made a sharp, loud snoring noise, stirred, and settled back into sleep.

"Rudy," Dorian said, shaking him, "wake up, man!"

Opening his eyes with a gasp, Rudy turned enough to fall off the thin, shiny examination table, crashing onto the floor. A split second later he popped up and said, "I'm up. I'm up."

Dorian held out the blue pill bottle, "I hope these help."

Rudy opened the bottle and peered inside, "This should make things much easier. The blood sample you sent me was no help. After a few hours, all the samples were ruined. Which is, well, not good." Not wanting to upset the DRN, Rudy quickly added, "Don't worry, the pills should help tremendously."

Dorian caught himself staring at the charging station standing in the corner of the room. He longed for a good, full charge on a real charger. However, that would have to wait. Rudy was babbling about the failed tests he had tried. Checking in on John, he couldn't believe how great the range on his eye was—much further than predicted, though the signal was blinking in and out a little.

John was still in bed but now his eyes seemed fixed on the camera. Dorian cursed under his breath. Rudy paused a moment, giving the android a curious look and then just kept on babbling.

Dorian watched as John picked up the eyeball camera with two fingers and sat up in bed. He looked utterly annoyed.

He tossed it on the bed and then got up and hopped to his leg, reattaching it. He walked over and picked up the eye again, giving it an amused look. Dorian watched it all with a sense of dread.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

John held the eye in his hand and thought of what to do. He jokingly wondered if he could swallow it. No, Dorian would just use that as a way to give him a better physical exam. But something had to be done; he didn't like being monitored like this. He was burning up and the air in the apartment was stagnant. He felt stifled.

"I'm going to get some fresh air," John told the eye, wondering if it had sound. "Don't worry, just the balcony."

He opened the sliding door that led to the balcony that was actually just a dock over the water that attached to his bedroom wall. It was a nice quiet night and the cool air felt good. The breeze coming off the water was refreshing, but goose pimples rose up across his skin almost immediately.

He leaned on the railing and rolled the eye around in his hand. Watching as the pupil always stayed focused no matter which way he moved it. He tossed it in the air a few times and caught it. Smiling at it. The fresh air was making him feel a little better. He couldn't deny that he was tired. After a few minutes of standing out in the fresh air, his head was getting harder to hold up and his eyelids felt weighted and sore. He needed to go to sleep.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

"I'm sorry," Dorian said, cutting Rudy off, "but I have to get back to John before he falls off his dock and drowns."

Rudy pointed to the empty socket in Dorian's head, "Y-you can see him right now?"

"I can," Dorian said, "I lost the audio feed on the drive over, but I can still see him."

"Remarkable," Rudy said, shining his light in the open cavity in Dorian's face, "I never thought you'd have such a nice range."

Dorian smiled and said, "Stay focused on the pills. Tomorrow John needs to eat and keep it down. Or I won't be able to keep him out of the hospital."

Dorian headed for the door. The eye camera was still rolling in John's palm. Then it was falling. Then Dorian watched as the picture grew darker and darker. The last thing he saw was John peering over the dock in dismay. Though, it was a blurry image, filtered by the water.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

"Shit!" John said as the eye rolled off the tips of his fingers. He clutched at the air uselessly as the camera fell away from him into the water, "Fuck. Shit. _Shit!_" Dorian's eye sank into the murky water and was gone. _Well, shit. _

John felt a little queasy. He _really_ didn't mean to do that. He tried to think of what to do next and decided that he simply needed to go to bed. With any luck, Dorian was too far away and hadn't seen any of that.

He walked back into the bedroom and closed the door that led to the little balcony. Moving quickly and quietly for no good reason, since Dorian wasn't there, he placed his leg back on the charger, hopped to the bed, and dove under the covers. He willed himself to fall asleep fast, before Dorian came back.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The noise of frustration that came out of Dorian was accompanied by his hand reaching out in front of him as if to save his lost part. He let his arm flop down as the camera sputtered off, sinking into the sludge at the bottom of the water. He turned around and asked Rudy, "Do you have any spare eyes?"

"What happened?" Rudy asked, opening a drawer in his workstation. Eyes rolled every which way; they sounded like marbles.

"He dropped it in the water," Dorian said, still making annoyed faces. His head twitched.

"Come here," Rudy beckoned. Dorian stood by him while Rudy held up eyes to test the colors.

"Close enough," Rudy said, handing Dorian a new eye. Dorian twisted it in and activated it, looking in all directions to test it out. It was an older model, not a detachable camera.

Rudy looked at the eye with an unsatisfied face, batting his hair back a little and shining a light in the digital orb. "Okay, it is a little more_ purple_ looking than your other eye," he tilted his head back and forth for a second while thinking, "Oh well, it will have to do for now."

"Purple?" Dorian asked, not at all concealing his displeasure. Shopping in the grocery store had given him the opportunity to fit in with the humans and having one purple eye would break that illusion.

"I'll order you a new one," Rudy said conciliatorily, "Just like the old one."

Dorian nodded and thanked Rudy. "Let's focus on getting John well again for now," he managed to say before leaving in a hurry.

He had one more stop to make before heading back to the apartment. He really wished he could still see John on the remote camera, but he had to let that go. He drove a few blocks down to the discreet, industrial apartment complex that the police often used to house people in need of protection. The MX standing guard on the door gave Dorian a curious look when he arrived.

"Where is Detective Kennex?" the MX queried.

"He sent me," Dorian said, not feeling inclined to explain any more to the soulless device.

The MX seemed to accept the information and stepped aside to let the inferior android through. Inside, sitting on the bed in the sparingly furnished, windowless living space was Maya Vaughn. She smiled at Dorian over the top of the book she was reading when he entered.

"How are you holding up, Maya?" Dorian asked, folding his arms. He didn't want to stay long.

"Fine," Maya said, she shrugged her shoulders and folded down the corner of the page in her book and closed it, "It's only been a few hours, though. How long do I need to stay here?" She had an intensity that made it seem like she wasn't merely looking at Dorian, she was studying him.

"If you need anything, just knock and ask Max," Dorian said, "He'll be right outside all the time."

Maya was unsatisfied with Dorian's skirted response, she stood up and stretched and walked over to him, poking a finger into his synthetic chest. "Am I under arrest?" she asked, "Because I can't tell if I am in a really nice prison cell or a really shitty hotel room."

"You are under protection," Dorian explained. "The pill you gave to Detective Kennex, it's very dangerous. And I think I can link it back to a very dangerous group."

"Insyndicate?" Maya asked. It was the only dangerous group she really knew of, on account of the police report from her parents' death.

"Yeah," Dorian said, nodding his head.

Maya's face crumpled in despair. "They are the ones who _really_ killed my parents, aren't they," she sat down hard on the bed, "and I helped them hurt someone."

Dorian wanted to get back to John now, but he couldn't leave Maya here in this state. He placed a hand on her shoulder in an attempt to show support.

She looked up at him, "How is Detective Kennex?" she asked, her face a slippery mixture of tears and mascara.

"Still sick," Dorian admitted, "But having the pills might help."

She looked desperately sad, "You probably think I'm awful."

"Here's what I need," Dorian said, ignoring her assumption and walking over to the beaten up desk in the corner and opening a drawer, "I need you to think hard about the whole situation. I want to know how you got into contact with the person who gave you the files and the pills, where you met, what he looked like, his name, hair color, any markings. Every detail." Dorian drew a tablet from the drawer and handed it to her.

"Okay," she said, willing to comply. She took the tablet and held it to her chest, "I want to talk to Detective Kennex, if possible. I need to tell him I'm sorry."

"Some other time," Dorian said, looking toward the door, "This place is protecting you from more than just the criminals, right now. He has no idea you are here."

She nodded and crossed the room for a tissue, blowing her nose like a trumpet.

"Focus on the facts," Dorian said, moving toward the door, "It will be okay. I'm taking good care of Detective Kennex."

He slipped out and exchanged looks with the MX before climbing into the cruiser and heading for the apartment. He felt sorry for Maya. She was a social creature and not fit for being trapped up in that little space. It was, however, much better than prison or death.

Captain Maldonado agreed to pick the girl up but had demanded a full explanation. When John found Maya and visited her, he put her life in danger, too. For now, it was best if John didn't know about any of this.

When Dorian came back to the apartment, he found John asleep—or pretending to sleep, with his leg back on the charger as if nothing had happened. While the man's irresponsibility concerning his remote eye irked Dorian considerably, he had to admit that seeing him safe and sound in bed was a huge relief.

Dorian crept to the other side of the bedroom and out onto the back deck. He peered over the side to see if he could tell how deep it was. Pretty deep. A thought ripped through Dorian's mind, suggesting that he go and gather a bunch of John's things and toss them in the water for revenge. _An eye for an eye!_ Shaking his head, Dorian rejected the thought immediately.

An internal voice informed him that his power was at 45%. _That explains his desire for vengeance. _

Dorian went back inside and locked the door behind him. He pulled the covers up and around John in bed and settled down into the deep chair in the foolish man's bedroom, placing his hand in his portable charger and closing his eyes. Worrying about John was a serious drain on his power and the low charge was making him dramatic.

Officially, this had been the longest day ever. Dorian didn't usually feel time differently based on his life events, but in this case, he had to check his clock several times to make sure that this was just one day's worth of misery and not three or four.

As Dorian charged in the chair, John coughed and tossed and turned through the night. He was wracked with fever dreams that had him nattering and jerking in his sheets. Despite John's troubling, noisy night terrors, Dorian managed to completely recharge.

John, however, was not nearly so refreshed. Come morning, he was groggy and weak. Dorian hooked up the IV again while he was still in bed and ran all of his tests while John leaned with his back against the headboard. Once he was fully awake, John looked at Dorian sheepishly and was surprised to see both of his eyes in his head. He placed a clammy hand on the side of Dorian's face, staying him so he could get a better look. The android smiled as John peered into his face. "It's not the right color," John said, frustrated.

"Yeah, well, some asshole threw my good eye into the bay," Dorian quirked one eyebrow at the pale, scraggly human. John was sorely in need of a shave.

"It wasn't on purpose," John said defensively, removing his hand from Dorian's face and poking at the IV cuff.

Dorian slapped at his hand to stop him from messing with the cuff and then said, "Are you trying to apologize?"

John gave him a rare smile, "Let's not overreact."

Dorian rolled his uneven colored eyes up into his head and dialed the lab. No answer. Once the IV was finished, he brought John his leg so he could go and take a hot shower. Kennex eagerly welcomed the opportunity to wash the night's sweat off. He was still a little unsteady on his legs and Dorian was worried, "If Rudy doesn't have an answer for me in a few hours, I'm admitting you to the hospital."

"Over my dead body," John snapped, grabbing a towel from the linen cabinet and tucking it under his arm.

"My fear, exactly," Dorian said, handing John a freshly washed pair of pajamas from the dryer.

John marched into the bathroom and turned on the shower. He wasn't going to argue with Dorian; arguing suggested that there was room for negotiation. He _wasn't_ going back into the hospital. Just visiting the building made him feel sick; he sure as hell wasn't climbing back into one of the beds where he'd spent seventeen months trapped in a coma. _Nope._

Dorian wasn't worried. If he wanted to take John to the hospital, he would. There was very little the detective could do to stop him.

While John lathered up in the shower, Dorian stripped the bed again and stuffed the sheets into the washer. While he was doing this, he ordered two more sets of sheets online using John's account. Enough was enough.

The doorbell rang. _That was fast. _

Dorian opened the door impatiently to find a man in a hazmat suit with a medical mask over his face. Flanking him were three MXs with cases and equipment. "Eurika!" Rudy shouted from behind the mask.

Dorian felt palpable relief and stood to the side to let the healing party enter.


	5. Chapter 5

**Sick Leave: Chapter 5**

Rudy set up a folding table in the middle of John's living room, assigning tasks to the MXs who accompanied him. He had a flair for presentation as he began attaching glass tubes, portable burners, and wires to create a lab in the apartment. Dorian was eager to hear the diagnosis and Rudy's dramatic silence gave him no reason to feel reassured.

"What's the verdict?" Dorian pressured Rudy to start talking.

"Uh, where's John?" Rudy asked, apprehension in his voice. The suit had a hood that covered his entire head and filtered the air, making him sound a little muffled.

"What's with the chemistry set?" John asked, walking out fully dressed like he was on his way to work. He looked skinny and colorless.

Dorian rolled his blue and purple eyes at the human's overinflated sense of pride. There was no reason not to dress comfortably because Rudy and some MXs were there. "Have a seat on the couch, John," Dorian suggested and lifted a hand to John's forehead. Before he could make contact, John shoved his arm away and gave Dorian a threatening look. It was obvious he didn't want to be babied in front of the other gentlemen.

John strode up to the table and looked at all the tubes and wires. Then he looked at the MXs. He gestured to all of it and asked, "Did you have to bring all of this junk here?" He coughed several times, painfully.

Rudy backed up until he nearly tumbled over the antique wood-burning stove in the middle of John's living space. "Stay back, please!" he said through his respirator, holding a gloved hand up. "You are remarkably contagious, John. Like a diseased blanket—just stay over there, by the couch." He gestured to the far side of the room where the plush seating was located. "If you would," Rudy added awkwardly, "please." John made him feel like he was back in school, being judged by the jocks.

John looked annoyed and folded his arms as if he had no intention to budge. Dorian came behind him and put a hand on the small of his back as if to escort him to the couch and received another shove for his troubles. Dorian considered, at this point, seizing the headstrong detective by the ear and hauling him to the couch on his toes. But, Dorian knew better than to humiliate his partner in such a manner, even if he absolutely deserved it. Instead, he waited patiently for John to huff his way to the sitting area in his own good time.

"How about you tell me what is going on?" John said, finally plopping himself down well away from Rudy. "I think the HAZMAT suit is a little much." He was making an effort to square his shoulders and puff out his chest, but he only succeeded in looking unpleasant.

"I am hoping this suit is _enough_," Rudy countered, "We are dealing with biological warfare." He continued to tinker with his portable lab as he spoke, "The drug you were given, it contains a very deadly but delicate substance." He tried to push the hair out of his eyes but the suit covered his whole head so he just ran a gloved hand over the plastic window for his face awkwardly. "The virus itself is smart. Sentient, if you want to look at it that way."

Dorian stood nearby, watching carefully and drinking in the information. "Genetically modified?" he asked.

"Precisely," Rudy said, looking up to point at Dorian. John looked off to the side, drumming his fingers on the arm of the couch, wishing the nerds would get to the point. "Genetically engineered to attack individuals with the advanced vaccinations reserved for police officers and medical professionals," his slender hands moved deftly over the instruments on the table as he spoke.

Dorian looked shocked as if something amazing was dawning on him; Rudy nodded gravely in his suit and tapped his temple. John groaned in annoyance, tugging at his shirt miserably. He was hot and itchy and the professors in the room were really dragging this out.

"So," Rudy said, realizing John needed a little help understanding, "If it weren't for Dorian keeping you at home, we would be in the midst of an epidemic. Everyone at the precinct would have been infected. Everyone at the hospital, too. Anyone with enough clearance or money to get the advanced vaccinations would be a host for the virus. It would be utter chaos. It is a very good thing you haven't left this apartment."

At that last statement, John's eyes darted to Dorian's and then back to the floor.

Dorian looked stressed.

"You haven't left," Rudy asked in unreserved terror, "have you?"

"No," John lied, unconvincingly.

"Yes, he did," Dorian corrected. "He took off yesterday and I had to go get him." John gave Dorian an annoyed look and the DRN could not have cared less.

Dropping the tools in his hands onto the metal counter noisily, Rudy turned his attention to John, "How many? I mean, how many people did you come into contact with? And, and who were they?"

John pinched the bridge of his nose to hide his face a moment while he thought, "Just two, really," he eventually said, "A cabbie and a…a psychic."

Rudy relaxed just a little. It was unlikely that either of those people had clearance for the vaccination. However, it was still a huge risk. "Do you remember the name of the cab driver?"

John sunk low into the couch and frowned, looking a little ill. "I don't know," he mumbled.

Rudy sighed and asked, "Do you at least remember the cab company?"

John shrugged his shoulders up. "I'm sorry," he said, "I was really out of it."

"You're a detective, right, John?" Rudy began.

John's eyes narrowed and his brow twitched. Rudy abandoned the lecture and waved his hands in the air, "It's fine. I'll just make some calls, see if anyone is sick."

"I'm doing that right now," Dorian informed them, his face flashing blue.

In the meantime, two of the MXs Rudy had sent down to the car returned. They were pushing a big android charging pad into the room. "Where would you like this?" one MX asked.

John sat up and stared at the unholy device being wedged roughly through his doorway, "Back in the truck," he tersely suggested, "Get that thing out of here."

"Sorry," Rudy said, "the captain says you need a keeper."

"That is why he lives with _you_," John said, "Remember?"

"Sorry," Rudy said again, his grin showing through the window of his suit, "But Maldonado wasn't talking about Dorian."

John's rage was almost tangible. His first instinct was to call the captain, but he wasn't sure how much she knew about what was going on right now. He walked halfway to the phone then walked back to the couch and sat back down, kicking the coffee table. It rattled.

Dorian directed the MXs to the back room, the sides of his face creased into a smirk. He couldn't wait to get a nice, thorough charge later.

When Dorian came back, Rudy suggested they continue with the explanation of the virus. He wanted John and Dorian to fully understand what had to happen and why. That comment made John feel a little uneasy so he piped down and listened.

"The virus needs a particular environment to thrive," Rudy said, his large eyes flicking from Dorian to John and back again, "which is why John's temperature has been so high the last few days. It controls everything entering the body, compromising the immune system, rejecting anything new from being introduced—including the bacteria from foods and water." He gestured at John, "That's why you haven't been able to keep anything down." Rudy paused to make sure everyone was with him, "John's body has become the perfect host for the virus. I am certain it was designed to enter one person and spread quickly from officer to officer."

"How can we get it out of me?" John asked, urgency filling his scratchy voice. He looked hot and miserable. All this talk of a virus in his blood was making him itch.

"I am so glad you asked!" Rudy said, clasping his gloved hands together and failing to hide his excitement. "You see, the blood samples I received contained the virus in the first few hours that I had them. When I went back to check later in the evening, they had changed. Can you guess what that means?"

John wished he had his gun. He felt, more than ever, like waving one around. People talked faster and more efficiently in the presence of firearms. Also, there were three MXs in his apartment and he'd feel a little better if he could just waste one or two of them. "Just. Fucking. Tell me."

"Even better, I'll show you," Rudy said, pointing a finger skyward for dramatic emphasis. He opened a case and handed Dorian a syringe. "Will you be so kind to get me one more blood sample?"

Dorian took it while John scoped the exits in the room, wondering if he could make it to the door in time. Then he remembered that Dorian had changed the locks. "Stay back," John menaced, "Just tell me for fuck's sake."

Two of the MXs moved forward, seeing a need. They advanced on John and helped hold him down, clutching his arms and pinning him to the couch. "_Ow!_" John shouted, unable to free himself, "Lay off!" He looked panicked. He couldn't run away, but his mouth went on quite the adventure.

"Stop!" Dorian shouted, grabbing the closest MX and prying him away from John. "Get off him, _now_," Dorian insisted, shoving at the other MX.

"He was not going to comply," the MX said, finally releasing John's wrist.

John's chest was swelling with overactive breath and he rubbed at his arms where the MXs had gripped him. He officially looked ready to run. "It's okay, John," Dorian said soothingly, "I'm sorry they did that." He placed a hand on John's chest to calm him. The MXs stood there like mannequins, not understanding.

Rudy was watching bug eyed. John sat up quickly and knocked Dorian's hand away. He hoisted his sweater sleeve up and stuck out his arm "Just get it over with, goddammit." He had to be tough now and let Dorian take his blood. John did his best not to wince as his very non-phlebotomist partner jabbed him. He scowled at the MXs that now stood off to the side, impassive.

When Dorian handed him the blood sample, Rudy placed a drop between glass slides and then under a microscope. "Look," he said.

Dorian watched the screen generated by the magnifier. "You see those long, dark strands?" Rudy tapped the screen over the top of a wriggling cell and the image wavered gently, "That is the virus. It needs the host to survive,"

John had no interest in seeing the virus. His arm hurt and Dorian hadn't even bothered to bring him a Band-Aid so he was using his fingers to hold pressure on the tiny puncture wound. When it stopped, he put his fingertips in his mouth to clean the blood off as a force of habit, balking at the taste.

"The virus doesn't last long outside of the host, in this case, John," Rudy said, "A few hours, at best."

"How will we draw it out?" Dorian asked, scrutinizing John like he was a confusing sculpture.

"We're going to change the environment," Rudy said. "Detective Vogel's body was taken to the morgue and refrigerated right away. When he was examined later, the virus was inactive and hard to detect. That's why we missed it. I tested it—here I'll show you," he gestured for Dorian to look at the microscope screen once more and pulled a canister out of his bag. He opened it added a drop of liquid nitrogen under the slide. The cold spread quickly across the glass and almost instantly, the virus turned white as it curled in on itself. "Aaannd finished," Rudy fanning his fingers out for dramatic emphasis.

"We're going to lower his body temperature?" Dorian asked, sounding no less concerned, "How?"

"Well," Rudy said, "Sticking him in the morgue would work—heh—but also, kill him, most likely. So, not that, obviously." Dorian gave him a cool, impatient look. Rudy tugged awkwardly at his hazard suit; his comedy was always way funnier in his head. "Anyway, there is a substance that can cause a chemical reaction that lowers the temperature of the body and blocks the hypothalamus from reacting to correct it."

Dorian was searching for these things as Rudy spoke, his face flashing with light, "It looks completely untested," he griped.

John's nose had begun to bleed and he was staunching the flow by pinching it messily, reluctant to leave the room for tissues while his fate was being so candidly discussed.

"Well," Rudy said, "It was developed by accident, of sorts, and so there has been little need for testing. Cryogenics were interested in it briefly, but alas, not powerful enough for them, I suspect," he trailed off and frowned. "Look, Dorian, he can't go to the hospital and he's running out of options." He gestured to John.

Dorian looked and saw the John's bloody face and rested his head to the side, clicking his tongue in dismay. He pointed to the hall and said, "Bathroom, John, you're bleeding everywhere, man."

"It's my couch," John muttered, but got up anyhow. He was feeling a little light headed with all of this information. Or maybe it was the blood loss.

Dorian turned his attention back to Rudy.

Rudy removed the slide with John's blood and sealed it in a sharps container with the syringe. "Here is the problem," the genius admitted quickly, with John out of the room they had a chance to talk frankly, "I don't have time to work on modifying this temperature drug. It is going to keep him shivering for about 36 hours. And, it's going to be miserable. Like, agony."

"Such a long time?" Dorian said, looking toward the hallway and back, "He isn't going to handle it well."

Rudy nodded, "After about six hours, it will be safe to say the virus will be eradicated. Probably in only four, but six to be safe. After that, he'll be able to eat and drink and get warmed up. I've brought heat blankets for you to use, but not until the six hours have passed."

John came back out looking grumpy and suspicious. "Have you decided how you plan to torture me, yet?" he snarked. Dorian was happy to see that he had changed back into a soft cotton T-shirt. He was still wearing his boots and slacks.

"Let's get it over with," Dorian suggested to Rudy, ignoring John as he shoved past the MXs and collapsed back onto the couch.

Rudy nodded and set to work on creating the medicine that would, hopefully, save John. While Rudy worked, Dorian sat in the chair across from John and explained to him what was going to happen.

"I'm just going to be cold?" John asked, surprised, "Bring it on. I've been so hot the past few days, It'll be a relief."

"You clearly don't understand how cold you're actually going to be," Rudy cut in, watching as the medicine he was creating dripped into a small glass.

Dorian held up a hand to stop him from explaining further. "It isn't going to be easy, but it is going to make you well again," he said and took the finished product from Rudy gratefully. It was a milky liquid in a syringe.

"Here goes," Dorian said, pushing John's sleeve up gently. Kennex averted his gaze, he felt like a pin cushion.

Dorian plunged the medicine into John's veins slowly. The detective grimaced and then looked at his arm begrudgingly. The DRN placed a thumb over the injection site, applying pressure to stop any bleeding.

Nothing happened for a few minutes and John was disappointingly still hot. "How long are we gonna sit here?" he asked, unnerved by Rudy and Dorian who were staring at him in awed, anticipatory silence.

Then he felt the ice in his veins, traveling through his body swiftly and sharply. John groaned and gripped at himself painfully, physically trying to reject the feeling that was consuming him.

Rudy observed John carefully, watching with equal parts apprehension and curiosity. Dorian looked horrified, trying to calm the convulsing man by placing his hands on his arms.

Within a minute John's teeth were clattering together and he pulled the blanket off the arm of the couch and wrapped up in it desperately. "Jh-jh-jesus," John shuddered, "So cold."

Dorian's face was stricken with concern, He was shocked when he saw how blanched John's skin had become; it was almost transparent. "He looks so pale."

Rudy and Dorian were talking about John as if he wasn't in the room. "He will look like that until the medicine runs its course," Rudy said, "It's called vasoconstriction; his body is trying to insulate itself."

John was shuddering, "I ch-ch-changed my mind," he said, "m-make this stop." Every fricative consonant forced out of John's mouth with concerted effort.

Dorian frowned, "Sorry, buddy," he reached down and gave John's shoulder a squeeze, "You're in it for the long haul."

Rudy addressed Dorian with instructions, correctly assuming that John was useless at this point. "Keep him dry," Rudy warned, "No showers, no swimming, don't go outside in the rain, or what have you. Try not to let him get too sweaty—which means no heavy layers. Moisture on his skin will draw out his body heat even faster. And that is not our goal."

Dorian took digital notes as Rudy continued, his face glowing, "His temperature shouldn't ever fall below 82 degrees. Monitor him often to ensure that he doesn't dip that low. Once the six hours is up, you should be able to start warming him up. Try to get him back up to the 90s and keep him there. The blankets will help, and warm liquids."

John was burrowing into the couch cushions, following his primal urge to find warmth. He was moaning.

Rudy set the MXs to tearing down the equipment so they could go. He left Dorian with a few syringes to get samples later, ensuring that those were kept out of John's sight.

"If he loses consciousness, try to warm him up," Rudy said, detaching tubes and packing his station quickly, "He may experience confusion, or, ah, temporary memory loss. He'll be sluggish and combative; unable to cope with the cold."

"Maybe I shouldn't have let you do this," Dorian wondered aloud, looking down at John who trembled like a frightened animal. His brows were knit in frustration.

Rudy watched the MXs carry the last of the equipment out of the apartment and informed them to wait in the car. "This is the only solution I could find," he said, placing a gloved hand on Dorian's shoulder, the yellow HAZMAT suit made him look bigger than he actually was. "People have survived much, much lower temperatures. And John will be in the apartment and out of the weather. He's going to be fine. Miserable, but fine. I promise."

Dorian took comfort in that. "You're right," he said, "thanks Rudy, I'll send you the data as I collect it."

"Set your timer for six hours," Rudy suggested, "and everything after that should be plain sailing."

"You're d-d-dead, Rud-d-dy," John's words vibrated through his teeth.

Rudy looked wide-eyed from inside his air-tight hood, "That's my cue." He saluted them both, looking ridiculous, and headed for the door. The threat of infection was very real and dangerous in those walls.

Dorian followed Rudy out into the hall, thanking him again for his help. He wanted to ask one more favor, "Do you think I can borrow the MXs for a few hours?"

"What for?" Rudy asked, "I mean, of course, Dorian, you can. But why?" He fiddled with his suit uncomfortably, as if he didn't believe it could have possibly kept him safe.

Dorian explained, grimacing a little bit because he knew it wasn't right to ask, "I'd like to put them to work wiping down the surfaces in John's apartment. I don't need him picking the virus up again. I know it will die on its own in a few hours, but I need to be sure."

"Yeah!" Rudy said, excitable over the smallest things and always eager to help Dorian, "Great idea. I'll get them," he pointed to the exit and walked a few steps before continuing, "Good thinking."

Two minutes later the MXs marched back into John's apartment clutching buckets and brushes. Rudy supplied them with tablets to dissolve in water that would create a strong enough solution to wipe out the virus on the household surfaces. While the virus didn't survive long outside of the host, Dorian still felt better about the house getting a nice thorough cleaning.

"Okay, fellas," Dorian smiled, clapping his hands, "Let's get to work!" He assigned a room to each android. They clambered off with their buckets to start their work, looking completely out of place in their black uniforms. Dorian had no intention of helping them complete this task. Their glassy eyes stayed forward focused as they began to scrub John's apartment.

John was still convulsing on the couch, whimpering about how cold he felt. For as sick as he had been in the last few days, John had been a trouper; seldom complaining. He never whined about his fever or his headache, and only occasionally expressed how truly miserable he had been. The cold had him in an entirely different state of mind. He made a consistent, high-pitched noise as he breathed through the pain of a dramatically low body temperature.

Dorian looked down at his human charge in consternation. He was reminded of John's story about falling into the lake while ice fishing. It must have been a similar kind of cold. "It is going to be okay, John," he promised, placing a hand on the suffering man's forehead. He was cool to the touch and his teeth ran into each other uncontrollably. "I'm here."

"What are the MXs d-d-doing?" John asked, sitting up and hugging his arms, then rubbing them vigorously.

"Cleaning," Dorian said, pulling John to his feet, "C'mon, Let's get you into some nice warm pajamas and some socks." He cajoled John into movement. Once up, the shivering man managed to walk down the hall to his bedroom. There was an MX dutifully wiping down his bedside table with a wet cloth. John was too cold and too tortured to care. He pulled off his work clothes and let them fall to the ground in a heap and staggered a pair of sweats. He selected a wooly pair of socks from the dresser and pulled them onto his aching feet.

As he slid the sock over his synthetic foot, he realized that the pain he was feeling in that leg was a phantom. His prosthetic had no nerve endings, but in his mind, both feet ached from the cold.

There was a war waging in his body. As wretched as the fever was, the chill was worse. He wanted to wrap himself up in blankets or submerge himself into hot water. Something; anything to thaw his aching insides. He thought of the cast-iron stove in the living room and wondered if he had any furniture suitable for burning.

Dorian directed him back out to the living room and put the TV remote in his hand. "Try to distract yourself, John," he said, "I'll be in the kitchen. Just hang in there." He read John's temperature and sent the data to Rudy.

"Blankets," John said pitifully.

Dorian brought him one blanket, not wanting to keep him too warm yet. His temperature was at 84. The virus in John's system was fighting for survival, attempting to run his temperature back up. "I am making you a big pot of hot soup," Dorian explained sweetly to the quivering man. "In a few hours, you'll be able to have some."

"Coffee?" John pleaded, looking up at Dorian with pathetic eyes.

"In a bit," Dorian promised, not wanting to tell John that he would have to wait another six hours before he could consume anything. He went back to the kitchen to make the soup. Dorian hadn't ever cooked before and he was a little nervous. He couldn't taste it to determine the best flavor or seasoning, so he just followed the recipe exactly. He was equipped with olfactory sensors, but they did little to help him understand if what he was making smelled appetizing.

He felt happy cooking for John. He found himself smiling as he worked, imagining how much the man would like this soup and how good it would be to see him eating once again. As long as they could get through the next hours, John would be okay. Out of the woods.

In the next room, John was curled on the couch watching mindless TV. After only a few minutes he snapped it off and the screen disappeared. He needed a better distraction so he went into the kitchen with his blanket still wrapped about his shoulders and hoisted himself onto the counter, knocking some of Dorian's ingredients to the side to make room.

Dorian was chopping carrots with the precision of a television chef. He turned to look at his visitor, "John," he smiled, "what are you doing?"

"Turn the oven on so I can put my feet in it," John requested with shallow breath, only half joking. His extremities were so cold that his fingers and toes took on an almost blue hue. The knitted socks on his feet provided little warmth.

Dorian set the knife down carefully, wiped his hands on a towel, and turned around and felt John's head. He was cool and quaking softly.

"Your hand feels so warm," John said, taking it from his forehead and touching it to each side of his face in turn. Nuzzling his sallow cheeks into Dorian's warm palm.

The android added his other hand, cupping John's face gently. The trembling man leaned into the touch, soaking up the warmth, as meager as it was. Dorian's face lit blue as he analyzed his temperature. He wanted to make the pain go away but there was little he could do to lessen his discomfort.

Attempting to envelop him in warmth, Dorian stepped up to the counter all the way and slid John's hips toward him, wrapping his arms around his waist and drawing his torso close. His legs hung down on either side of Dorian, his heels resting against the lower cabinets. "You're going to be okay," Dorian promised, running his hands up and down the length of John's back and shoulders.

John plunged his icy fingers into Dorian's shirt, untucking the hem from his pants, and sought warmth and relief from the painful tingle of cold. He wrapped his hands in his partners loosened shirt and pressed them into the soft synthetic skin that covered his stomach. He curled his legs behind Dorian's thighs. When John leaned his chin down to rest on the DRN's shoulder, the blanket fell down around him and Dorian gathered it back up quickly, keeping him snug and close. He turned his head, his lips brushing against John's earlobe and coming to rest gently on his cheek.

"It is not advisable for the patient to sit on a tabletop designated for food preparation," an MX stated matter-of-factly, suddenly in the kitchen with them.

John bolted upright, smacking the back of his head on the cabinets. "Fuck!" he barked, wrenching his hands from where they were twisted into the soft fabric of Dorian's shirt and rubbing vigorously at his scalp.

The MX standing there holding a bucket and scrub brush that looked completely out of place paired with his riot gear. The machine fixed on Kennex, waiting for him to get off the counter.

Dorian saw John looking around for a weapon and quickly moved his knife out of reach. "He's right," Dorian sighed, grasping John's hand and pulling him off the counter and onto his feet reluctantly. "The couch is a good place for you until everything has been disinfected." His hands lingered on John's shoulders a while longer than necessary before he finally turned around and scraped the chopped carrots into the boiling pot on the cooktop. The dimple lines on his face carved deep with a smile.

John seethed. His leg ached from the cold and the MX standing in the kitchen made him feel murderous. Even his rage couldn't keep him warm, though. He walked stiffly toward the couch, purposefully knocking into the MX as he walked past. The unsuspecting bot rocked, spilling the bucket of water onto the floor, slipped in it, and crashed into the nearby counter, knocking a large glass bowl onto the floor where it splintered into shards.

Dorian stared in disbelief, hands on hips, lips pressed together firmly, "Dammit, John." He ignored the floundering MX.

"Stupid, clumsy robot," John offered by way of explanation, trying to walk to the couch without stepping on glass while shivering. He wanted to smile but his skin felt too cold, and no longer pliant or responsive to his muscles. Still, his mirth did not go undetected.

"Get a broom, Max," Dorian grumped once the MX found his footing, his eyes slipping up to check on John.

John sagged into the couch. His mind felt broken, fragmented. The ghost of Dorian's touch was still on his body and he missed the warmth.

He replayed the feather soft touch of Dorian's lips on his face over and over in his head.

He cursed the MX as it cleaned up the floor, gathering the glass efficiently. John turned the TV back on, but stared past the floating screen. His brain felt lethargic; he couldn't focus on a goddamned thing.

Once the floor was free of glass, Dorian kept an eye on John while he cooked and the MX started to wash the cabinets. They worked fast, Dorian had to admit, and didn't miss a single spot. As an added bonus, John's apartment was getting a much needed clean. Cobwebs hanging in every corner and a shamefully thick layer of dust had not escaped Dorian's careful observations.

John missed his fever. He wondered how much longer he was going to be cold. If he'd known that the next day and a half would be spent in this miserable state, he wouldn't be nearly so biddable.

The soup in the kitchen was starting to smell wonderful and John could hardly wait to be able to eat again. He shoved his frozen hands down the front of his pants and trapped them between his thighs for warmth, well beyond giving a damn.


	6. Chapter 6

**Sick Leave: Chapter 6**

This was a _far_ cry from police work. Dorian was folding a basket of laundry in John's bedroom, hanging up black shirt after black shirt, matching socks, and folding underclothes. He held up a particularly tatty pair of boxer briefs and made a face. He weighed the options: fold these or toss them in the trash. An easy choice, he folded them perfectly and placed them atop a pile of similar garments; John was in a terrible mood already, no sense in making it worse.

The MXs were still hard at work. They were given very little instruction and didn't seem to know when it was appropriate to stop. The house was disinfected from top to bottom, and still they worked. One of them was even outside washing John's bayside windows. From the look of the grime, it had been a few years since their last wash. The second android was scrubbing at Maya Vaughn's distasteful artwork in the _former _trophy room, much to Dorian's delight. He was considering that room his now, since the captain sent the charging pad. Getting it back to Rudy's would be a hassle that John wouldn't likely be bothered with. At least, that is what he hoped.

The third MX? Dorian finished rolling John's last pair of socks into a bundle and looked around. Where was the third MX? A feeling of dread crawled into his mind and he abandoned his folded laundry to go check on John with a little bit of urgency.

Worst fears confirmed, John wasn't on the couch. Dorian spun, his eyes working quickly to scan everything. Looking for clues and hoping he wouldn't have to tell Maldonado that John destroyed more city property. He heard a strangled noise from the bathroom and hurried over to the door. He wanted to kick it in, but thought better. He knocked, "John?"

The sound of running water made it difficult to hear John's garbled response but easy to understand that something was amiss. Dorian broke into the tiny room. The bathtub was filled nearly to the point of running over and the scalding hot water made the air thick with steam. In the corner, the third MX was holding John against the wall with his arm while the sick man flailed at him uselessly.

"Get this thing off me," John shouted, his voice hoarse. He was up on his toes as the MX was pushing him up the wall a little with a crushing forearm across his chest.

Dorian turned the bathwater off, pulled up his sleeve, and stuck an arm in the scalding hot water to pull the drain. Then he asked the MX to please let John go.

The MX turned his head to look at Dorian while John still gasped at the air. "Supervisor Lom stated that the patient must avoid immersion in water until the full 36 hours of unregulated body temperature has passed."

"I know," Dorian said, eyes flickering to John quickly and back, "Thank you. Let him go. I've got it from here."

The MX removed his arm from John, unpinning him.

"Goddammit," John said and shoved the MX with both arms as hard as he could. It had learned from the incident in the kitchen and was prepared for the assault. The MX slammed John back into the wall, bouncing his head off the tiled surface.

Dorian clutched John's upper arm, fingers curling around his bicep, and explained to the MX, "I've got him now, Max. You go clean something."

The MX looked at Dorian curiously, or blankly, it was hard to tell. "Detective Kennex's living area is now completely disinfected," the automaton informed them, still holding John against the wall.

Dorian could feel John convulsing beneath his grip. At first he thought it was anger, but realized quickly that the man was still lousy with cold. "Both of you get your synthetic hands off of me," he stuttered, "Right fucking now."

The MX released John at last but Dorian did not. The human shot daggers at the androids and pushed short angry breaths through chapped lips.

"Fucking robot," he grumbled, "I just wanted to put my feet in, and my hands. Damn thing came outta nowhere."

"I know you are desperate to get warm again," the DRN said softly once the MX exited the bathroom to go help scrub spray paint from the walls. "Hot water will only provide temporary relief. You aren't frostbitten from being in the cold, your body temperature is being forced down through a chemical reaction. Wetting your skin will only expedite the process once you leave the water."

"Then I'll stay in it," John growled, "For the next 36 hours, _apparently_."

Dorian winced, he had hoped to keep John in the dark about how long this was going to last. "Try to keep yourself busy," he urged, "Watch TV or read a book. Get your mind off the cold. In a few hours, you'll be able to start warming up again."

John was stiff. His joints disagreed with him and bending made him ache. He felt like he was 100 years old. The back of his head throbbed from where the MX had smashed him into the wall. He wanted to argue with Dorian, and to tell him what a total crock of shit it was that he was going to stay cold for the next day and a half. But his teeth wouldn't part far enough to let him say much. He felt rusted. Being told to read a book hadn't helped.

When he exited the humid bathroom, the dry air of the hallway sent a new wave of shivers across his skin. He walked inflexibly to the couch and sat cross legged so he could tuck his freezing foot under his thigh. He unfurled the blanket and slung it over his head and around his shoulders, pulling it tight. Finally, he wedged his fingertips into his armpits. In this position he looked like an angry, cold, meditating Jedi.

From the couch he stuck out his leg and used his toe to drag the glass coffee table closer without having to get up or uncover himself. He reluctantly pulled a hand out of the blanket and tapped the light screen up, flicking the screen from side to side with sweeps of his hand. Until he found the file he wanted to read. This ought to serve as a worthy distraction.

Case 34P-C91244. Unresolved.

He cast his eyes down and sped past the pictures of Martin and the other men on squad Bravo-one-seven. He was certain the virus in his system was placed by Insyndicate. They were collecting high grade biotech and nanotech two and a half years ago and no progress had been made since. John glowered at the reports while quivering. Most of the entries were about him, investigations of his possible criminal involvement while he lay in a coma, missing a leg. He shook his head through page after page, including inquiries as recent as two weeks ago still focusing on his role. Mostly internal affairs. _Bastards. _

He cascaded through the details, seething. Finally, he pulled up a find box and typed in VAUGHN. A paragraph, hidden in the report, revealed a couple in the crossfire. Shot in their car. Maya's parents. _Shit. _

Still, it wasn't him. It wasn't the police. It was Insyndicate.

But the whole raid on the base had been orchestrated by him.

"You don't have clearance on those files," Dorian said, peering over his shoulder.

He shrugged, Dorian should know by now that the rules didn't apply to John. "They are still looking at my performance to determine my involvement," he huffed, "And Maya's parents were killed in the raid. Civilian casualties."

They exchanged a regretful look. It made sense that there were citizens lost in the action, all that firepower in one place.

"That explains a lot," Dorian said. The MX outside was working on the last window and was peering at them eerily as it squeegeed. "Close it," he whispered, "Or they'll see."

MXs were notorious tattle tales in John's opinion. He tapped the screen shut and it disappeared.

"It wasn't your fault," he assured, giving John's shoulders a quick squeeze before leaving to stir the soup.

John picked up the TV remote and turned it on. The screen blipped into existence. He slid shaky fingers up the touch screen on the remote, watching the channels flutter through their cycle. His eyes felt sore and he swallowed hard against his raw throat, burying his emotions. He was too cold to think anyhow. His brain ricocheted from one thought to the next, never landing long enough to fully form an idea. Just one thought reoccurred in succession, filling in the gaps in his mind: _so cold_.

Dorian's hand snaked around to his forehead, pressing, reading his temperature. The warm fingers were pleasant and welcome. "You're doing okay," he said reassuringly, pulling his hand back. John didn't believe him for a second.

Dorian went to check on the MXs and found them all scrubbing at the last piece of graffiti left in the room, the word "asshole" in scrawling font. Dorian looked in dismay at the places where the MXs had already cleaned up graffiti. They had bore right through the drywall.

"Guys, less pressure," Dorian said, pointing to the pock-marked wall. All three MXs turned to look. Dorian tapped the ruined surface, "Just the paint, fellas." He went to go move the sheets from the washer to the dryer, wishing the MXs were programed to blink a little more frequently. Their faces were unsettling.

As a rule, John avoided watching the news. It mimicked his daily life but seldom got the stories right. But, he hadn't been to work all week and he was curious if anything remarkable or exciting had happened in his absence. He spent months after his coma in this apartment, his sanctuary, unconcerned with the rest of the world. Now, three days on the couch, and he felt stranded and utterly disconnected from the rest of the world.

He set glazed eyes on the television screen and suffered through the insufferable news anchor banter, an unwatchable fluff piece about a synthetic puppy, and a few cases of petty theft captured from literally every angle and, as always, thwarted by a ridiculous number of MXs. The news made life in the city seem like one giant reality television show. After a few minutes of measuring his breath, John realized he was watching, fearful that there would soon be a story about a terrible virus ripping through the hospital all caused by his foolish mission to retrieve his cellphone.

That story never came.

However, midway through the broadcast, a breaking story announced a small explosion downtown. John leaned forward, wondering what it could have been and who would be assigned to the case. When he saw footage of the ravaged building, he fell off the couch and onto the floor with a thump. Maya Vaughn's building. Smoke billowed from the broken doorway, obscuring the skewed, unilluminated sign out front.

"No," John said from a heap on the floor, "No. Fuck!"

He untangled himself from the confines of his blanket, got to his feet, and pushed past the debilitating numbness in his core. He slammed into the bedroom, fumbling for the pants he left on the ground. They weren't there, "Dorian!" he shouted, failing to notice the DRN was literally right in front of him. "There you are," he said, his face grief stricken, he placed a hand on Dorian's shoulder gravely, "We have to go."

"What?" Dorian was confused. "Do you want to get in bed and try to sleep?"

"Sleep?" John strained, infuriated, "There's been an explosion. Goddammit, it's my fault. I wasn't even thinking. I chased her down and didn't think of the consequences."

Dorian attempted to pull John into a hug in an effort to swaddle him into relaxing; unsure of what he was talking about. Rudy had warned him of the mental and emotional side effects of lowering the body temperature. "Calm down," he cooed.

Wrenching violently, John ripped himself out of Dorian's embrace, "I killed her parents and now I've killed her, too!" He was still shaking with the cold but sweat was beading at his hairline.

Dorian held up two hands, palms facing John, "Take a deep breath," he advised.

John looked ready to throw a punch. Dorian accessed the news internally, catching the ongoing report of an explosion in Maya's shop. That made sense.

"John," Dorian said in a nice even tone, "Maya is under police protection right now. She is safe."

The information crossed John's mind slowly, as though the idea needed time to thaw. "Really?" he asked breathlessly, his fist clutching at the T-shirt covering his chest.

"Yes, John," Dorian said, directing him to the bed to sit down and calm himself. "I went to see her last night. She's safe and she's waiting for you to get better so you guys can talk."

The mattress had no sheets and John listened to Dorian's words and then slid off the edge of the bed and onto the floor, his head tucked in his knees and his arms around his head. Dorian watched in awe at how violently the man was shaking. His low body temperature had placed him in a feeble mental state, that, combined with the pain in his joints and the fear of having caused the death of the young woman had sent him right over the edge.

Dorian knelt down and placed a hand on the back of John's neck and squeezed gently. "I'm sending the MXs home," he murmured, "Take your time."

John curled tighter, burying his head, seemingly unable to get his breath under control.

After regarding his partner a moment longer, Dorian rose and left John on the floor to pull himself back together. He wanted to gather the sick man into his arms and smooth away the shock but he knew better. John needed a little bit of space.

He entered the trophy room and found the MXs finished with their task. They were all standing in a cluster, not talking. They weren't even looking at each other. "Okay, Stonehenge," Dorian said, "Time to go." He half escorted, half herded the MXs to the door, sending them home. Rudy was on his way to pick them up and they could wait outside.

All three watched him slam the door before perfunctorily turning and heading toward the street to wait for Rudy.

The TV was still blaring the breaking news and Dorian snapped it off, grateful for the peace, and then checked on the soup. When he turned around from stirring the pot, John was sitting on the couch looking a little bleary eyed and embarrassed. "When we left Maya's," Dorian said, careful not to let an awkward silence grow, "I had a few MXs pick her up and place her in protective custody. I also made sure that the only detective permitted to talk to her was you, John."

He clanked the lid back on the soup and joined the couch, sitting beside the wreck of man. John's breath was still shallow and fast, skittering out of his cold lungs. He looked at Dorian with bloodshot but grateful. Sliding close, he tucked himself up against the warm android, his heavy head burying his face against his partner's soft shirt. The "thank you" was barely audible but Dorian heard it.

They sat there in the quiet of the apartment in the aftermath of John's melt down until John's breath seemed calmer. He looked up at Dorian finally, their eyes met. Dorian marveled at the way John's eyes seemed so wet and changed, the redness in the corners indicating his stress. He braced John against him, hoping to quell the shakes.

The miserable human was staring into the android's face as if he was trying to memorize it.

"I hate your purple eye," John said finally, decidedly. He nodded his head in agreement to his own remark, a smirk tugging at his parched lips.

The tension officially dissipated. "Whose fault is that?" Dorian poked at the weary detective's ribs gently. He moved to stand up again and John grabbed onto him with both hands, bringing him back down onto the couch.

"Don't get up," John pleaded, "You're warm."

"I'm not your personal heater," Dorian said, but he made no motion to leave again.

"I feel useless. Watching you buzz around and work makes me feel like I'm dying," John shouldered himself into the crook of Dorian's arm. He laid his head back against his partner. His house felt palpably clean from the hazy veil of dust that had been lifted by the MX squad: housework division. "Time feels slower," he complained.

Dorian checked the time for good measure. "Okay," he said wrapping an arm behind John's shoulder and giving his arm a squeeze.

John closed his eyes but there was no hope of sleep. He pressed himself hard into Dorian as if applying pressure would release some secret heat. Just when Dorian thought the ailing man had found a comfortable place to rest, he would spin into a new position and start readjusting all over again, fighting for the perfect pose and seeking warmth from new angles.

Dorian watched curiously, his spine a little too rigid. He hadn't quite figured out how to master the curvature that humans took on when they relaxed.

John turned again, and groaned. He spun himself to face Dorian and jammed his feet underneath the synthetic's thighs, wedging them between the android and the couch. Dorian looked at him in disbelief, "Land, John," he insisted, "You haven't sat still for a minute."

John gave him a wrathful look, as if all of this was his fault. He shoved even harder until his feet were all the way under Dorian's legs and then sat up and pulled the blanket tight. He leaned against the cushions of the couch and pouted.

Dorian had to look behind him to hide his smile. Even though John was in agony, there was something completely adorable about his grouchy, puckered face.

"Do you think the virus is gone?" John asked through clicking teeth. "Rudy said it could be sooner, didn't he?"

"He said six full hours," Dorian clasped John's hands between his own, creating a pocket of warmth and successfully holding the wiggling man a little bit stiller. He inspected the inside of John's arms and realized that the constriction of his veins would make it very difficult to draw blood even if he wanted to check right now.

The toes beneath his thighs never stopped moving. They lifted up and down between the fabric of Dorian's pants and the couch to create warmth through friction. John was going to be sore when this was over. His every muscle seemed to contract against his will.

"So you had Maya taken in, eh?" it was something to talk about at least; something to keep his mind off the dead panic of agony.

"I was worried for her safety," Dorian tried to say it in a way that didn't sound like he was accusing John of _not_ being worried. The crumpled look on the other man's face alerted him that he hadn't been very successful. "You were sick."

"Nothing is gonna get done with Insyndicate unless I do it," John said, pulling his hands out of Dorian's palms and his feet from under his legs. He shifted again, pulling at the blanket in frustration as he turned and laid himself along the length of the couch, his head resting on Dorian's thigh. Dorian looked down into John's serious face. His hair was a matted nest; his eyes were ringed in red while the rest of his face was blanched.

"You're off that case," Dorian rested a hand on John's chest. He wanted to steer the conversation away from law-breaking vengeance. Light surrounded them from every angle in John's glass house. It seemed like a trendy holding pen at a zoo rather than a private residence. Even the ceiling in the bathroom was glass. Living on display didn't seem like John's cup of tea but there he was, squinting up against the sunlight.

A moment later John was twisting again, repositioning. Grunting in discomfort. Dorian sent a message to Rudy asking about possible sedation. This tossing and turning was ridiculous.

Rudy reported back that it wasn't a great idea. Sedating John might drop his temperature too low and would make it impossible to make sure he was conscious.

"Stand up a second," Dorian said, frowning at Rudy's response, which John was not privy to. When John miserably complied, Dorian turned sidewise on the couch with his legs along the length of the cushions. Then he held out his arms to John, "Sit right here," he said, indicating the space between his legs.

John hesitated.

"C'mon," Dorian said, pulling him by the wrist. John sat down awkwardly, his back cautiously pressed into Dorian's chest plate. He spread the blanket over his lap and Dorian wrapped his arms around his shoulders and held him tight, holding him still. "Now relax," the android said quietly, his mouth close to John's ear.

Dorian held onto John for a long while, absorbing his shakes and listening to his labored breath. He seemed unable to fully fill his lungs.

Eventually, a small reminder popped up in Dorian's mind. Shit. He had to stir the soup.

"I have to get up," Dorian apologized. "The soup is going to burn."

"Fuck the soup," John said, pressing his toes into the couch and his back into Dorian to hold him in place.

Dorian wondered why this weak, sickly man thought he could outmuscle him. Even a healthy John couldn't prevent Dorian from getting up. He extracted himself from the whining human and saved the soup. Half an hour more and John should be virus free.

Dorian was anxious to get things going so he dialed Rudy, playing the conversation aloud so John could hear. "Dorian?" Rudy answered, he sounded distracted.

"We're almost at six hours; can I test John for the virus and see if he can start getting warm? He's really in a lot of pain."

"Uh, couldn't hurt," Rudy said. John perked up and looked Dorian over expectantly. He held out his arm, ready to give up blood or anything else if need be.

Dorian frowned. "Is there a way to do it without blood? His veins are…tiny right now." John seemed to take offense to that, inexplicably.

"Use the IV cuff," Rudy suggested.

Before hanging up, Dorian said, "Labs on the way." He dug out the cuff, tapped at it and placed it on John's arm. John gasped audibly as it pierced him. He was desperately dehydrated and his veins were constricted with cold. The cuff had to dig deep to puncture a vein.

Dorian took a sample and injected it into his neck, sending the labs to Rudy.

Rudy's message back went only to Dorian. He closed his lids over his blue and purple eyes and sighed in relief. He grabbed a bottle of room temperature water and handed it to John. "Drink up, man," he smiled, "Uh, slowly, okay?"

John twisted the cap with trembling hands and chugged at the water. Dorian shook his head and ladled soup into a deep bowl from the cupboard. He found a spoon and brought it to John. At first, John simply cradled the hot bowl in his cold hands. The warmth was too much, it was almost painful.

Dorian pulled a heated blanket from one of the bags Rudy left and snapped it on. It almost instantly generated heat. He tucked it around John. He looked at the untouched bowl of soup John was protectively cradling. He was eager to get some food in the starving man. "If you can keep a bowl of soup down, then this nightmare might truly be over."

John looked at the soup and then back up at Dorian. "Can we get some take out from China Garden instead?" he asked so sweetly, so innocently.

Dorian was crestfallen. "Sure. Sure, John," he said, noncommittal, hiding his bruised pride in plain sight. "I think this might settle in your empty stomach better."

John smiled through his clicking teeth, "I'm fucking with you," he chuckled, "this is perfect." He was pressing the bowl into his chest and even on his face.

"Eat," Dorian said flatly.

John put the spoon to his lips and closed his eyes as he took his first taste. He could feel the warmth of the soup traveling down his cold throat and into his stomach. It was comforting and odd and the soup was surprisingly delicious for Dorian's first stab at cooking. He felt his empty belly spasm with the introduction of foods and worried for a second that he was going to throw up again. He pushed the feeling down.

As the heat blanket warmed his legs, prickles of pain traveled across his skin.

"This isn't over yet," Dorian said, boldly moving his fingers up through John's hair idly. "Your body is still not regulating. You have a whole 'nother day of this."

John was shoveling the soup into his mouth. He dropped the empty spoon in the bowl and held it up over his head. "More?"

Dorian took the bowl with a smile and went back to the kitchen. He filled it half way, filing the smell of the soup in his memory. This is what good soup smells like.

John looked at the half full bowl and then back up at Dorian.

"Take it slow," Dorian warned. He went back to the bedroom and put away John's folded laundry in the proper drawers. He pulled the fresh sheets out of the dryer and put them on the bed, snapping them crisply into place. Yeah, this _was_ a far cry from police work. It was almost the direct opposite. And yet, Dorian fluffed John's pillows and placed the blankets back on the bed with a smile he couldn't control.


	7. Chapter 7

**Sick Leave: Chapter 7**

He stepped onto his charging dock and felt a deep and instant release of tension. He laid back and closed his eyes, nesting against the inclined pad. Damn, it felt good to get off the cord and obtain a real charge. With John napping under a pile of heated blankets, the virus eradicated and his stomach full of soup, Dorian could finally relax.

The second bedroom needed some work. The walls needed to be patched and repainted. Dorian envisioned a nice rug on the floor and a place to keep his clothing. A desk of some kind, he thought, as his mind slipped even deeper down into stasis. Normally, he liked to charge in silence, but there was something even more soothing about the soft sounds of John's breathing coming from the front room. He could feel the ebb of energy pulsing through him and it was indescribably pleasurable. He gave into it completely, his fingers tightening, relaxing, and then going static.

John's shivering stopped so long as almost all of his body was under the heating blankets. He was tucked up to his chin and had fallen asleep on the couch after stuffing himself with soup and tea. He had wanted to eat more but Dorian cut him off, suggesting he take it slow and then enforcing the suggestion.

The apartment was quiet and still as both men found peace in their perspective napping areas. As they snoozed, afternoon burned into evening, entirely unnoticed. It reflected the odd change of pace and erratic hours brought on by illness.

As he slept, John began to dream vividly about the raid on InSyndicate. He was back in the alley surrounded by gore; blood and bits were splattered up the building walls and thick under his boots like slush. His heart began racing out of his chest at the sight. This dream was different from his trips to the recollectionist when he was gorking out on Membliss. Here, reality was warped and twisted. Both of his legs were intact but his right leg wouldn't bend and felt heavy. He dragged it to a nearby car. Inside, he found Maya weeping over her dead parents, blood pouring from their indistinguishable faces. When she looked up at him he staggered backward, shaking his head in panic. He could still hear her crying no matter how far he retreated so he squeezed his hands over his ears but the shrill noise wouldn't go away.

Stumbling through the foul smoking streets, he passed the bodies of his fellow officers. He examined them closer and found Valerie and Richard, Rudy and Maldonado in the rubble. Their corpses were half eviscerated, their faces slack and waxy with death.

His own voice nattered in his head, repeating again and again that it was all his fault, _all his fault_, and he could still hear Maya wailing. He was cold. _So cold_. And he was searching for Dorian. He knew if he could find Dorian, it would all be okay. Somehow.

Up ahead, he saw Anna and felt conflicted. He wanted to limp away and hide, avoid dealing with her, seeing her. He also wanted to choke her, press his fingers into her delicate throat until it collapsed under his thumbs. "Dorian," he shouted; he wanted Dorian so badly.

"I've got something for you," Anna smiled, her perfect lips spreading to reveal her perfect teeth. As he trudged closer, those teeth looked sharp, vicious.

She held out her hand to him, her slender fingers that once spent quality time on his body containing a gift of some kind. Shaking, he stuck out an arm and took it from her. When he looked down at his palm, his stomach jumped up into his throat. A sparking, beautiful blue eyeball. _Dorian._

"I'm sorry," he said to the eye, "Dee, I'm sorry." When he looked up at Anna, Maya was standing there instead. "I'm sorry," he told her urgently, "_Fuck_, I'm so sorry."

The eye in his hand moved and terrified him.

John flailed himself awake, coated in sweat from the nightmare. He thumped his hand on his chest and struggled upright on the couch, kicking off the blankets with panicked exigency. Soaked in sweat, his mind reeled from the disturbing dream.

He forced himself up and into the kitchen for a glass of water from the tap, feeling stiff and sore. Leaning back against the counter, the embattled man looked out the windows. It was dark now and he felt trapped in a time warp. The sun was up when he'd fallen asleep. Yanking the fridge door, he was taken aback by the food on the shelves. Dorian really had gone shopping. Where was Dorian?

Walking softly on stocking feet, he peered down the hall and saw the charging pad glowing in the second bedroom. He tip toed back to the kitchen and dug in the fridge for a beer. One left. _There is a god_.

He popped the cap off against the counter and took a swig. Opening the cupboard to toss the beer cap in the oatmeal container he kept for just that purpose. He scratched at his chest as he discovered even more food. The sweat drying on his skin was making him shiver, reminding him that he still had over a day of chills ahead.

Pushing the ugly thought down, John grabbed a spoon from the drawer and twisted the cap off a jar of peanut butter. He dug a heaping spoonful out and left the open container on the counter, retreating back to the couch to finish his meal under a heat blanket. The sweat on his body was making him freeze.

He sucked at his beer. His throat still ached from coughing it raw. Virus or no, his body had gone through the ringer. His stomach muscles felt tight and sore and his shoulders and lower back ached.

Stuffing the peanut butter spoon into his mouth and then pulling it back out again, he enjoyed the sweet, grainy taste against the roof of his mouth and his tongue. If he had to guess, he'd say it had been fifteen years since he ate peanut butter that wasn't dipped in chocolate and dropped from a vending machine.

He closed his eyes happily and stuck the spoon back in his mouth, ignoring his shuddering body. The beer pulled out of his grasp and John opened his eyes and looked up at Dorian, the spoon sticking out of his mouth.

"Really, John?" the android asked, tugging gently on the spoon handle so John would let it go. He opened his mouth and allowed Dorian to take it away.

The annoyed DRN dumped the beer down the sink and tossed the spoon in, exasperated. "You've been able to eat for just over four hours John, maybe take it easy on your stomach?"

John wrapped the heat blanket tighter and shrugged. Dorian cursed under his breath as he put the lid back on the peanut butter, wondering if the man had been raised by wolves. _It would explain a lot._

"Not sure how you are even alive, the way you eat."

John didn't say anything. The beer wasn't sitting well and he certainly wasn't going to admit that. Instead he focused on making sure every bit of his body was wrapped in warmth from the bridge of his nose down, cocooning on the couch.

"Peanut butter is protein," he finally argued, once he'd thought of it. His mind was addled and slow, though it was massively better than when he was still battling the virus.

Dorian stretched in the kitchen, moving his joints in turn. He felt great, though he could have spent longer on the charger. "More soup," he said decisively.

John let his head fall back. Actually soup sounded good. His dream flashed behind his eyes and he shook it away, rejecting it. He didn't put a lot of stock in dreams but he was bothered nonetheless.

The irritated android poked the stove top on and chucked the soup on the burner. Then he pulled a box of saltine crackers out of the cupboard and carefully spread them with peanut butter and placed them on a plate. He held the plate in front of John, waiting for him to come out from under his blanket to take it.

Leaning forward to examine the offering, John wrinkled his nose. "Don't like saltines. Remind me of when I was sick as a kid."

"You're sick now," Dorian felt compelled to point out.

"I like it on a spoon," John added.

A shake of the plate made the crackers bounce and resettle and John reluctantly freed his arms from the warmth and took them. Dorian went back to the kitchen and John set to work licking the peanut butter off the crackers. In turn, he leaned the soggy, salty squares in a neat stack back on the plate. He was tired of losing arguments and this at least cured his boredom for the moment.

Dorian stirred the soup and then came and sat by John. The recovering human passed him the plate with the moist, empty crackers and grinned. Dorian took it and set it on the coffee table with a clatter. "Smartass," he accused. He leaned forward to place a hand on John's face, reading his temperature. "You're still low," he moved his hand up through John's hair and frowned, "and you're sweaty. You weren't supposed to get sweaty."

"I had a nightmare," John said, he yawned to hide any accidental emotional response.

"A nightmare?" Dorian looked concerned and John couldn't stand any more pity, he was full up.

"I dreamt you had a hideous purple eye. Like some kind of cheap sex bot," John said, then glanced at Dorian, "Oh _fuck_, it's come true!" He showed his teeth in something close to a grin, entirely forced.

"My new eye should be in soon," the DRN said, rubbing subconsciously at his purple orb. He examined John and knew that whatever he'd dreamt about, it had been upsetting. "Are you okay now?"

John nodded, swallowing. Dorian nodded, not believing the human at all.

He stood up, ladled a bowl of soup, and handed it to his charge. John needed a shower, the DRN could tell by the state of his hair. Unfortunately, he wasn't going to get one anytime soon, at least not until he was back to a nice healthy temperature.

Dorian, however, was long overdue. "I'm going to shower," he said as John drank soup from the side of his bowl. In the bathroom, he stripped off his clothing and stepped under the stream. He felt grimy and contaminated and wondered why he hadn't thought to wash sooner. _Oh right_, he'd been babysitting a malcontent, hell bent on dying or infecting the world every time his back was turned.

He washed with John's soap. _This_ was a scent he recognized. He inhaled it from the bottle and closed his eyes. _John in a bottle._

_Well,_ that is how John _usually _smelled. Right now he smelled like peanut butter.

Toweled dry and feeling better, Dorian picked his clothes up off the floor and wadded them. He needed something else to wear—these were covered in John's blood, sweat, and drool. Not to mention several days' worth of worry and work.

He raided the dresser and pulled on a pair of soft pants. It wasn't surprising that John had so many pairs of pajamas—he'd spent months at home recovering from his coma, most likely too depressed to put on anything with buttons. Dorian pulled a T-shirt out next, black and faded, of course. Before he put it on, he pressed it into his face and experienced the scent. He felt surprisingly comfortable in the borrowed wardrobe.

He bent and gathered the array of soiled clothes from around John's unremarkably empty hamper. He pitched the entire bundle of clothing, John's and his own, into the washer and turned it on.


	8. Chapter 8

**Sick Leave: Chapter 8**

_Critical warning: DRN charge level 8%_

Dorian stirred out of a murky haze. He opened his eyes and looked down at the foot planted in the middle of his chest.

"Dorian!" John's voice was angry and flustered, "Dorian, fucking let go of me!"

It took the android a moment to realize he had John's wrists in his hands, holding tight. John was trying to push himself out of the iron grip by leveraging with his leg against Dorian's chest plate. More than a little embarrassed, Dorian quickly let him go.

The human was wholly unprepared for the release. He flopped backwards and fell off the other side of the bed and onto the floor with a grunt. "Goddammit!"

Dorian tried to think quickly. The last 24 hours had been hell. Emotionally and mentally distraught and unable to cope with the misery, John hadn't handled the last day of his lowered temperature well. He had been mean-tempered and ornery. In a last ditch effort to calm him, Dorian had decided to crawl into bed and keep him warm, increasing his core temperature and holding onto the detective.

John had been determined to take a hot shower, so Dorian had finally seized him and held him tight until he found his way to sleep. Needless to say, neither man had had a pleasant day.

Dorian popped up off the bed feeling strung out. Increasing his temperature to keep John warm had drained his charge alarmingly. He grabbed John's leg and took it to him where he laid sprawled on the floor.

John twisted his leg into place and struggled to his feet, "What is wrong with you?" he growled and pushed past Dorian, "I thought you had malfunctioned. I've had to pee for the last hour!"

"I must have hibernated to conserve energy," Dorian explained, following.

John stomped into the bathroom, not bothering to shut the door. He groaned in satisfaction, finally able to pee.

When he felt Dorian's hand on his face, his spine went rigid.

"Dorian," he said through clenched teeth, still peeing, "not right now."

John gasped as Dorian hugged him from behind with enough force to nearly knock him over, sending his stream off course momentarily and splashing the tiles. "You're temperature is 98.6, John! That's perfect! The perfect temperature for a human! Congratulations!"

John finished urinating, shook, and tucked himself back into his pants as best he could with the android's arms clasped in front of his chest. Dorian lifted him off the ground and spun him in a circle.

"Let me go!" John shouted, twisting.

Dorian put him down, turned him around, and grinned. He was overcome with happiness and the delirium of a dwindling charge. He placed his hands on both sides of John's face and planted a kiss on his forehead.

_Critical warning: DRN charge level 7%_

John looked at Dorian in disbelief, "What is going on with you?" he asked.

"My charge is depleted," Dorian admitted, "But I'm just so _fucking_ happy that your temperature is back to normal, man."

"That explains it," John said, well aware of his partner's quirks while on a low charge. Dorian seldom swore when he was functioning at capacity. The human was aware of the danger; the DRN was happy now, but any moment now he might start punching things.

Dorian pushed John toward the bath, "Take a shower, John. You've earned it," giving him a rather forward smack on the ass, "I'll make you breakfast."

John looked indignant. "Just go charge, Dorian," he said, staying well away from the handsy DRN.

The strained bot strode out of the bathroom. John shut and locked the door before stripping and shaking his head. The shower felt amazing and he was so grateful to finally wash his hair. He felt greasy and matted from two days of misery and it was satisfying to lather it all away, his fingers pressing small, deep circles into his scalp. He took his time, feeling better than he had all week.

When he emerged, a tall stack of pancakes, scrambled eggs, and toast awaited him. Dorian ushered him over.

_Critical warning: DRN charge level 5%_

"Eat up, John," his voice dipped terrifyingly low.

John sat down cautiously, examining his friend. "Dee, thank you for breakfast. Please go charge, you're officially freaking me the fuck out."

"Eat, eat!" Dorian urged. His blue eye flashed like a beacon. The purple eye stayed normal; a much older model.

"Fucking go charge," John said, parting an extra thick pat of butter from the stick on the table and placing it on the pancakes. He poured hot syrup over the top and watched the butter melt and swirl and run over the sides of the stack. He had to admit, this looked delicious and the heated syrup was a nice touch. He never treated himself as well as Dorian treated him.

Dorian wanted to stay and see if the breakfast was okay so he took a seat, holding up a hand to prevent any protest from John. "Just a few minutes, then I will go charge."

John cut into the stack and stuffed his mouth, closing his eyes to chew. The pancakes were perfect and they reminded him of Sunday mornings growing up.

_Critical warning: DRN charge level 4%_

"How do you feel, John?" Dorian asked, drumming obnoxiously on the table with his palms.

John had a mouth full of pancakes and quirked an eyebrow while he chewed. When he swallowed, he ate more. He didn't think there was any use in talking to Dorian while he was low on power.

"Those must be good pancakes, am I right?" the jittering android asked happily.

John used his knife to pile up a forkful of eggs then stuck them in this mouth. He looked out the window at the bay. It looked a little grey outside.

Dorian looked out the window, too. His face lit up with several different colors. "It is going to rain cats and dogs today," he commented, "Well, for your sake, I hope it is just dogs. Right, John?" He laughed too hard at his own joke.

_Critical warning: DRN charge level 3%_

John scratched at his chin uncomfortably and tried to look anywhere else.

"Fine!" The DRN pushed his chair back and stood up from the table in an absolute huff, "I have to charge." He was still in John's clothing and he tugged on the T-shirt indignantly before striding away. He briefly thought about grabbing the rest of John's breakfast and tossing it in the trash, but he resisted.

John waved him off, delicately piling eggs on top his toast with a knife.

Dorian walked to his charge pad feeling strung out and abused.

However, thinking about John being well again made him deliriously happy, despite John's decision to ignore him even though he'd selflessly slaved over breakfast. His yo-yo emotions made him feel off balance.

_Critical warning: DRN charge level 2%_

Relaxing onto the charger, he fell into stasis almost immediately. The rushing flow of electricity coursed through him and placed him in a state that drove the thoughts right out of his mind.

Once he had some peace, John practically licked his plate clean. He wasn't one for making breakfast. He was more of a coffee, coffee, more coffee and doughnuts kind of guy. He picked up the tall glass of orange juice and took a swig. "Fresh squeezed?" he said incredulously. A peek in the kitchen and he found the orange skins in the sink, squeezed dry. He shook his head and left the empty glass on the counter and his dirty plates on the table.

In his bedroom he put on real clothes and sighed in relief. His throat was still a little sore and he felt overly tired from the ordeal. But being the right temperature for the first time in a week made him feel like a new man.

John looked all over for his key fobs in frustration. He had a few things he needed to do and he wanted to do them while Dorian was charging. Finally, he thought to look in the one place they shouldn't be—in Dorian's coat pocket. He grabbed at the big blue coat hanging on the rack and found his fobs in the right pocket. Of course.

He let the coat fall to the ground and left it there. He pulled his own coat on and headed for the door. _Locked._

He remembered Dorian changing the scanner a few days ago. The android had been so bent out of shape about John leaving that he locked him in. John cinched his eyebrows in annoyance. This was stupid, ridiculous. It was unnecessary and pointless, rude. It was so _typical_ of Dorian. _And_, it was a fucking _fire hazard_.

John rattled the lock even though he knew it would do nothing. Then he kicked the door for good measure.

Stomping back to the second bedroom he looked at Dorian charging in his pad. "Dee," he hissed. No response. "Dorian," he said louder, "Dorian!"

He finally reached out to poke the charging robot and jumped back as a static shock zapped his finger before he could make contact. "Shit," John said loudly. Dorian charged on. He eyed the plug in the wall and wondered if Dorian was updating his files while he charged—it probably wouldn't be good to yank the plug. He was going to have to find his own way out.

John really didn't feel like swimming, so the side door was out of the question. After about twenty minutes of brooding, he went to his desk and poked Rudy's number into the light phone.

"John," Rudy's voice filled the air but the light screen showed an MX on a table with a huge portion of his face missing. Rudy's hands moved around, peeling back the frayed synthetic skin. Rudy had the camera turned around so John could see what he was doing rather than his face. "It's nice to see you up and about. How are you feeling?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," John said, waving his hand dismissively to stop any chatter about health, "Look, I need help breaking the lock on my apartment door. It's uh, I forgot the code."

"Dorian changed it?" Rudy wasn't a fool. "Don't know if he'd want me to help you."

"C'mon, Rudy," John urged, trying out the puppy dog eyes he often used on McGinnis in forensics.

"You're welcome, by the way," Rudy added flippantly, ignoring John's attempts to look adorable with his ridiculous begging face. He plucked a fragmented piece of forehead out of the MX and tossed it in a metal bowl near the table. The MX's good eye looked at Rudy and it was unnerving to John.

"Oh, right," John said, biting back his aggravation, "Thank you for helping me feel better, Rudy. Ya know, I forgot to thank you right away because maybe my brain is still _fucking frozen_." He hung up.

Grabbing at one of the oversized chess pieces displayed on the bookshelf, John stalked to his door and smashed at the electronic lock twice. It fizzled and sparked and the door popped open. He set the decorative, blunt weapon down and slipped out the door, letting it slide closed again, banging against the lock. He'd have Rudy fix it later. Errr, after he apologized, maybe.

The fresh air was revitalizing despite the threat of rain that made the air feel heavy as the wind blew across his face, opening his jacket to expose the bright fabric on the inside. He took the steps in the parking garage two at a time and got into his cruiser. He had to adjust the seat back because Dorian had been driving and then he pulled out into the city. A free man, at last.

The underground area most often used to keep witnesses protected was non-descript and heavily guarded. He parked his car in front of the MX on guard. "Detective Kennex," the MX said, acknowledging him and focusing on him as if waiting for a command.

John gave the MX a silly salute by way of greeting and stood by the door, "Is Maya in here?"

"Yes, Miss Vaughn is detained in this room," the MX confirmed.

John pushed the door open and went inside, wishing very much that he had knocked like a gentleman. Maya was in the middle of changing her clothes and stood there in a pair of jeans and her bra, a tank top wound in her arms.

He turned toward the wall instantly, placing a hand on the concrete, "Sorry," he said, wincing at his own awkwardness and impatience.

"Detective Kennex," Maya said with so much enthusiasm that John felt instantly relieved of guilt. "How are you feeling?"

"Better," John said, turning back around slowly with the assumption she was now dressed, "Didn't mean to barge in."

"It's in your nature," Maya dismissed his behavior with a wave of her hand. She had an eager look on her face, "Where's Dorian?"

John thought for a moment and said, "He's working undercover as a sex bot," he scratched at his chin, "Probably on his knees somewhere in one of the seedier districts. Poor guy."

"That's terrible," Maya frowned.

"He's a trooper," John said with admiration.

"Are you here to let me out?" Maya asked, her voice sandy with hope. She was changing the conversation quickly before John could give her any more information about the DRN's new detail, "Because I'm going stir crazy. Those MXs are the worst conversationalists."

"No, not yet," John said, absent mindedly glossing over her commentary, "I just need to know if you have any details about the man who gave you the drugs."

Maya pulled an oversized sweater over her tank top and sat on the bed. "You guys need to seriously rethink these rooms. This is the most depressing place I've ever been. Is your room this bleak?" She leaned over the bed stand drawer and pulled out a tablet.

He scratched at the back of his head, fixing her with a quizzical look, "My room?"

"You're here too, aren't you?" she asked, "I mean, whoever used me was clearly trying to kill you." She squished up her face, "Right?"

"Keep your voice down," John hissed, looking back to the door and holding his hand out level at the young woman, "I don't need to be shacked up in one of these cells."

She cocked her head to the side adorably. "But it's okay for me?" He fanned a hand at her dismissively, not interesting in discussing his own hypocrisy. He was the law, not a citizen. "Detective Kennex," she stood up and walked over to him, placing a hand on his arm, "Look, I wanted to tell you, I'm sorry for what happened to you; what I did."

"I'm fine, it's fine," John said, patting her hand clumsily. He opened his mouth to say he was sorry about her parents but the words didn't form. Instead he squeezed her shoulder and walked across the room, busying himself with his keys.

"I'm sorry about your…shop," he said, turning to face her again. _What a fucking chicken._

"I'm insured," Maya shrugged, "I'm surprised they didn't blow up your place, too."

He rolled his eyes.

She shifted her hip to one side. "Last time Dorian was here, he said this room was protecting me from you, too." She asked it slowly and confidently. Her gaze was disarming. "Where is Dorian, really?"

"Fucking electric drama queen," John sneered under his breath.

"He seemed pretty mad at you that day, when he hauled you out to the car and cuffed you," she picked a tablet up off the bedside table, drumming her fingers on the back, "Are you two…"

John's felt himself flushing. He had managed to mentally block that embarrassing incident and she just ground the wound back open. He had hoped she hadn't seen Dorian cuff him, bent over the hood of the cruiser. "What's on the tablet? Is that your report?" Anything to derail this conversation.

She held it out to him, "It's everything I can remember."

"We'll be in touch," John said, tapping the tablet in thanks and making his way to the door.

"I have friends I can stay with," she blurted, urgent to stop him, "Out of the city. In San Francisco. Please don't make me stay here any longer."

"Sorry," John said. He pulled out of her grasp.

Maya frowned as she watched him go. He still didn't manage to tell her he was sorry about her parents. He wasn't sure if he could handle that. Confronting his problems wasn't one of John's strengths.

John drove to Yuri's and ordered lunch, sitting up at the counter and scrolling through the contents of the tablet. It was an obnoxious file with too many unimportant details. He couldn't help but read it in Maya's earthy voice.

He shoveled sushi into his mouth while pouring over the content, hoping for the one clue that would help him locate Insyndicate. They were too careful. Several times in her report, Maya mentioned that the man giving her information was sweating profusely and seemed nervous. Of course, they wouldn't send in one of their own.

He didn't feel any closer to finding Anna. He'd all but given up until his fever-addled brain boiled it back to the surface.

Grumpy and unsatisfied, John paid for his food and got back into the cruiser. His phone rang through the dash and Captain Maldonado's voice pierced the air with his last name.

John winced. "Yeah?"

"You're quarantined right now, Detective," the captain stated bluntly, "So I'm confused about your location."

"The virus is eradicated," John countered.

"Go home, John," Maldonado demanded, "You don't have a case right now, even with the girl in protection. You're not working on anything until I get the all clear from Rudy."

John thought of fifteen excellent ways to respond. Instead, he said, "Copy that," and hung up the phone. He was heading home anyhow. It started to pour down rain and John bitterly thought about the fact that he was going to have to suck up to Rudy.

No umbrella in the cruiser, John jogged through the rain from the parking garage. As he approached his home, he saw the door standing wide open. A feeling of dread crossed over him and made his stomach clench. Maya's words shot through his mind. They knew where he lived and he was their target. But, he reasoned against his racing heart, they always knew where he lived. He pulled his gun at the doorway, leaning into the wall before entering with his arms level, ready for anything.

Nothing seemed overturned. "Dorian?" he called out cautiously.

He kicked something as he walked along and it rolled across the floor quickly. John watched it bounce off the wall and roll back toward him. He stooped to pick it up. A purple eye.

He looked at the eye in his hand, his recent nightmare lurching in his mind. "Dorian," he said hushed. He cursed himself for breaking the lock and leaving his place open and unguarded while his android charged within.

He felt dizzy, sick. He wasn't any closer to finding them and now they had Dorian. He looked at the gun in his hand and wondered if any of this shit was worth it. It would be so quick and so over.

Footsteps behind him made him spin, pointing his weapon.

Rudy dropped the bag he was carrying in shock. "John!" He was dripping from the rain.

John lowered his gun, swallowing past a lump in his throat. "They got him," his voice cracked out harsh.

"Got who? Dorian, what's going on?" Rudy asked, looking past John.

The strung out man jerked to look behind him. Dorian stood there, back in his own clothes, looking confused. Two pretty blue eyes in his head.

John grabbed onto his robot and held tight.

Dorian looked genuinely surprised and slid his arms around the detective protectively. "What's the matter?"

John didn't try to explain.

Rudy picked his bag up off the floor and knelt in front of John's door lock. He looked back at the hugging men and said, "Don't mean to spoil a moment, but could you have perhaps found a better way to open this door, John?"

John ignored the technician. Dorian patted Kennex's back and released him from the hug. "You know John, Rudy," Dorian smiled, "He never does anything halfway."

Rudy grumbled, removing the smashed in plate from the door. "Well if you hadn't hung up on me, I would have explained how to open it."

John still didn't care. He palmed the purple eye into his pocket. Soaking and still reeling from near tragedy, he stalked back to his bedroom to change his clothes. While doing that, he slipped the eye into a small box on the dresser.

Dorian was washing the breakfast dishes and Rudy was tightening the screws on the new door lock. John inspected the new mechanism over Rudy's shoulder, whistling, "looks like new."

"It_ is_ new," Rudy stated flatly.

"Hey look, buddy," John said, knocking into the skinny man conversationally. Rudy shied away, annoyed. "Maldonado says I'm still quarantined and she's waiting on you to give me the all clear."

Rudy rose to his feet and shut the door. He tapped at the lock then stood back and asked John to put the backup code in and lay his finger on the scanner. Then Rudy tested the lock on both sides and found it fully functional.

"Bye, Dorian," Rudy called. Dorian came out of the kitchen wiping his hands on a dish towel and waved. "John," he said curtly.

"Oh, c'mon," John groaned. Rudy scooped up his tools, sweeping the room for any he might have missed. Then he prowled out into the pouring rain, he could be theatrical when he wanted.

John felt Dorian's hand on his shoulder and turned. "Feeling better?"

John nodded. "Much better, health-wise" he said.

"And otherwise?" the DRN couldn't help but stroke the side of his face gently. There was a grumbling clap of thunder in the distance.

John didn't flinch, "I got Maya's statement."

"And?"

John shrugged, "I'm not sure it gets us any closer."

"Let me finish your dishes and I'll take a look," Dorian said, a hint in his voice suggesting that the dishes should have been done by the man who ate off of them.

John thought it would be best if they just agreed to disagree, and he sat on the couch while Dorian finished. The waves kicking up in the bay and the newly placed lock on the door made him feel cozy and safe even though he knew it wasn't exactly true.

Wait, Scratch that, the robot humming in his kitchen made him feel safe. _Shit. _


	9. Chapter 9

**Sick Leave: Chapter 9**

Dorian and John hunkered in the living room and spent the rainy evening scrutinizing the facts and assumptions they had gathered surrounding Insyndicate. Their living space was smattered with glowing holonotes scratched in John's quick, slanty penmanship. Dorian stood by the wall, organizing notes and grouping them, sliding them around with flicks of his fingers.

The rain belting against the windows matched John's mood as they grasped at the evidence and continuously came up empty handed. It was fucking frustrating. Lightening out on the bay was followed by thunder that was so close it shook the windows and reverberated in John's chest.

It was getting late and he hadn't eaten since lunch. John stared into the fridge, the LED lights bathing him in clean, white light. Still out of beer. Lots of fresh fruit and vegetables. A pot of soup with enough for another bowl and a half. This was way more than he usually had but still a disappointing inventory. He kicked the door shut and opened the pantry. _Score_, Dorian bought cookies. They weren't his favorite but they would do. He grabbed the pack of Oreos out of the cupboard and brought them back to the couch, cracking open a soda and working his way through the first sleeve of cookies.

"I'll heat up the soup," Dorian half-offered, half-announced.

"Please, not soup," John begged off, his mouth full of cookies. "I'll order in."

The DRN's blue eyes looked steely and John admired them, glad the purple eye was in his dresser and no longer in his android's face. Dorian opened his mouth to lecture John, probably, and a rather loud clap of thunder shook the walls. A sharp, static snap and the electricity browned out of existence, taking with it the television screen, the lights, the holonotes, and everything else.

They blinked in the dark, noting the sharp absence of the constant and normally imperceptible electric whine of technology. Dorian's face cracked blue, lighting him up in the darkness. John watched, enthralled, crunching loudly on a cookie.

"The whole district is out," Dorian announced in the darkness.

"Oh well," John said, "I'm done looking over the same information. With the same results." He groped at the coffee table for another Oreo and found the pack missing.

"Let me see if I can make you some real food," Dorian offered, suddenly in another location within the space. A flash of lightening lit the room up bright as day and John saw that Dorian was holding the Oreos.

"Let's just go out and get something," John suggested, his eyes attempting to adjust to the dark. He knew that Dorian could see just fine and it was obnoxious.

"In an electric storm?" The android scoffed.

John produced a curt, derisive snort. It was still pouring outside and the thunder persisted. He picked up a precinct-issued tablet off the table and turned it on to use the screen as a light. He pointed it around the room looking for Dorian, finding him in the kitchen peering into the cabinet.

"It's not dangerous, Dorian. It's just a thunderstorm," John said, he pulled three more Oreos out of the package on the counter that was now half empty and shoved one in his mouth, "hey, did you buy milk?"

"No," Dorian said, grabbing the pack of cookies and shoving it in the pantry, "I could make you a salad. There are plenty of vegetables in the fridge."

"I'm going to get my shoes and coat."

Dorian realized that they were officially going out and pulled his coat on reluctantly. The door locks had battery backup and John led the way through the rain to the car. It was pouring harder than John wanted to admit. When they got in the cruiser, both of them were soaked. Their socks were squishing in their shoes.

John swiped his sopping hair back off his forehead, much of the volume lost to the rain. Water running down the back of his neck was a little filmy from the hair product he swore he didn't use.

Dorian opened his coat and lifted the hem of his shirt to pat the water off his face. He looked at John wholly unamused. "All of this because you don't want to eat a salad."

John tilted his head and ground his teeth as he started the cruiser, "Shut up."

Much of District 7 was without power so they had to hop on the 604 and head deeper into the city.

"Where are you taking us?" Dorian asked, "Not McQuaid's. You are supposed to be quarantined. This is pushing it already; going to a cop bar would not be advisable without full medical clearance."

"Don't worry, I left my chip at home," John said, cranking the heat to stop himself from shivering from the rain-water-saturated clothing that clung to his body. "But no, not McQuaid's.

We'll get something to go," John decided, "and some beer. I'm not going to sit in a restaurant looking like I just got out of the pool."

"You still look better than you have most of this past week," Dorian assured John, who gave him a look of disdain.

They stopped at an in-and-out mart and John ran in and bought a six-pack and a bag of chips. On the way home, they picked up a pizza. Arriving back in the garage, John turned to Dorian, "It's still raining pretty hard," he announced, "Can you wrap your coat around my pizza?"

"Seriously?" Dorian asked, staring at the man in disbelief.

"It's just that, it's not like you _need _your coat," John said, his eyes wide and pleading. "If not, it's okay, I will just use mine. And freeze to death. Or let the pizza get ruined. And starve to death…" He did a terrible job hiding an amused smirk.

Dorian started to protest but then gave in and jerked his jacket off and yanked the pizza from John. "Let's just go," he grumbled.

They ran back through the rain and John thumbed open his door to let them back inside. The human was laughing in the dark living room as both men created a rather large puddle of water on the concrete foyer floor.

Dorian couldn't complain. He closed his eyes and listened with a smile as John's laugh punctured the silence. It was comforting that the moon was covered by heavy storm clouds and that John could barely see. It was nice to see him act naturally. The absurdity of their situation had broken the brooding mood that had consumed the embattled detective all week.

John heeled out of his shoes and let his wet socks drop into the puddle. His coat and shirt followed and he opened his phone and used it to navigate the hall while simultaneously working at the button on his pants. "C'mon, Dee. You can borrow some dry clothing."

Dorian unwound his coat from the pizza and set it on the table. Then he unlaced his boots, stepped out of them, and followed.

. . . . .

Dorian woke to an internal voice pleasantly and, for some reason, robotically announcing that he had reached a complete charge. Wearing a mismatched combination of John's clothing, he looked down at the gaudy, plaid pants and tattered, stretched band T-shirt before stepping off his charging dock. It had been dark last night when he had dressed in the clothes John found for him.

The human was snoring loudly in his bed, all of his blankets were on the floor and he was curled into an awkward ball. Dorian drew the comforter off the floor and placed it over the sleeping man and watched him unfurl and roll into the blanket without a hitch in his rhythmic breathing.

The aftermath of the power outage was smattered all across the rest of the apartment. John's belt and pants we in the hallway, the light screen TV was blaring, beer bottles, potato chips, and Oreos freckled the table, floor, and couch, a quarter of a pizza stood in the open box on the floor, and the foyer was a small lake of rain water floating with socks, shoes, and the rest of John's clothes. Dorian sighed and got to work.

John slept late into the morning. He'd fallen asleep on the couch in the wee hours; five beers deep. Dorian had been forced to carry him to bed.

John didn't wake up until the laundry was drying, the dishes were done, and Dorian was mopping the floor. When he emerged from the bathroom freshly showered and dressed, he observed Dorian in the pristine room and blinked a few times, "the hell are you wearing?"

"Your ugliest clothing, it would seem," Dorian said, tugging at the pants.

John smirked and stretched. "Did you make coffee, Dee?"

For a brief moment, Dorian considered smacking the detective with the wet mop. Instead he said, "Think you can manage it on your own, big guy?"

"Did you…put me in bed last night?" John called conversationally from the kitchen as he set the coffee maker. Dorian checked the dryer to see if his clothes were ready. Not yet. He restarted the machine.

Cuddling a coffee cup, John sat on the couch and slid the coffee table closer with his toes. "Wish we had donuts," he muttered. "Or pancakes," he added even quieter, shifting his eyes to the DRN hopefully. Dorian gave him a pithy look. "Guess not," he powered on the television and the screen popped into view.

Dorian's face lit blue. "I'm getting a call from the MX guarding Maya," he said, his voice losing all edge and his eyebrows smoothing out.

"Play it out loud," John requested, turning off the TV.

The android nodded and answered the call. The MX said, "Maya Vaughn would like to speak with you or Detective Kennex."

"Put her on," Dorian instructed.

Maya's voice came over the receiver so John could hear, "Dorian?" she confirmed, "That guy, the body on the news, that's _the_ guy! The one who gave me the pills and the paperwork."

John flicked the TV back on and slid his fingers up the remote until he landed on the local news. Footage of a body being lifted from the water was playing and then the conversation changed to the rainfall and the power outages, some of which were still in place. John flicked the TV back off, "Are you sure?" he asked through Dorian.

"Positive," Maya surged.

John was up and out of the room, getting dressed and ready to leave.

Dorian thanked Maya and hung up.

"Dee, come on, we gotta go," John urged. "Change out of those stupid pants. Just throw them away, I had no idea how awful they looked until just now."

"My clothes are wet still," Dorian said, "And you are quarantined. The captain won't clear you for duty on this case until Rudy reports you all clear."

John looked momentarily confused and then angry. After a split second, he clapped his hands in determination, "Okay. Go change into some of my clothes," he ordered, "and get Rudy on the fucking phone and tell him to lift the fucking quarantine. Tell him it needs to happen _now_." After he said all that, he looked at Dorian and added, "Please, and thank you. Let's move!"

Dorian dialed Rudy, not aloud, and headed for John's room to find clothing to wear. He pulled on a pair of jeans and kept the T-shirt on. He'd just put his coat on over it. While he dressed, he spoke to Rudy.

Rudy answered the call warily. Lately, a call from Dorian meant a lot of extra work for him.

"We think there's a break in the case," Dorian said, "Can you call Maldonado and lift the quarantine on John?" He could hear Rudy grinding his teeth through the receiver. "Rudy, Please?"

Conflicted with his adoration of Dorian and his annoyance with John, Rudy weighed his options. Finally, the solution presented itself, "I can do that," Rudy said, "But I'll need one more blood sample."

Dorian winced. "If I get it for you right now, how soon will you be able to call the captain?"

"Oh, right away," Rudy assured. Dorian thanked him, promised him a sample, and hung up.

He joined John who was standing by the door with his arms folded. "What did Rudy say?" he asked anxiously.

Dorian dug through one of the residual bags lying around from John's illness. He turned around holding a syringe, "Well," he said, "What do you want first, the good news or the bad news?"

John cursed and cursed some more. Dorian had to look up one of the words and then promptly purge it from his search history, embarrassed.

Knowing that he had to do this or he wasn't going to get anywhere with this case, John yanked his jacket off and shoved his sleeve up. As Dorian approached him with the needle, John turned his head and looked away.

"Very brave," Dorian announced and stuck John's skin. The human flinched.

Dorian placed an elastic bandage over the puncture wound and gave John's arm a pat. He stuck the needle into his own neck and transmitted the data to Rudy.

Rudy smiled as the data came through. Little did they know, he'd lifted the quarantine last night. It felt a little petty to seek his revenge on John in such a mean way, but also deeply satisfying.

As they headed for the cruiser, John looked back at Dorian in his jeans, "Pants fit okay?" he asked.

"Yeah," Dorian flashed his teeth, "A little too tight in the front, though."

John stopped in mid-step, "Was that seriously a dick-size joke?"

Dorian shouldered past him confidently with an eyebrow quirked. "Wasn't a joke, man."

. . . . . .

John and Dorian stood over the body. It was waterlogged and heavy and propped up on a stretcher ready for transport.

The DRN was able to get a name from facial recognition. John took note of the track marks on the victim's arms and the bright green gunk accumulated around the corners of his mouth and his nostrils. "Heroin and the bends," he said, "in the very least."

"All of the addresses I'm getting are previous," Dorian said, examining the pin-pricks on the tips of the man's fingers. "I think this man was homeless."

John plucked a black rubber glove from the supply wagon on the scene and stretched it onto his right hand. He lifted the dead man's upper lip and found further evidence of a bends addiction. "If we had found him first, we could have questioned him," John frowned. "I wish Maya had noticed more about who he was."

"It still would have been like finding a needle in a haystack," Dorian consoled.

"Mmm," John was brooding.

Dorian hesitated over his next words, "Maybe if we took something of his to Maya, she could try to contact him?"

John shifted his eyes toward his partner, "You seriously believe in that shit?" he asked cynically.

"Couldn't hurt to try," the DRN offered, "and maybe she'll subconsciously reveal more information in the process."

That worked. John poured over the body for something to take. He finally settled on the plastic, broken, waterlogged watch on the vagrant's wrist. He unstrapped it quickly and stuffed it in his pocket. Dorian cleared his throat and John looked up to see Officer Halverson staring at him gape-mouthed.

"It's for evidence," John said, "Calm down, Halverson."

The officer closed his mouth and handed John a plastic evidence bag.

John took it and nodded, "Thanks," shoving the bag in his pocket.

He yanked the plastic sheet back in place up over the body.

Dorian addressed Halverson kindly, "We're done here. Can you wrap it up?"

The young man agreed.

. . . . . . .

This time, John knocked before entering Maya's underground, protected apartment.

She pulled the door open to greet them, beckoning them inside. She smiled wide for Dorian and gave him a big hug. John stood there awkwardly and waited for the gushing to stop.

"Can I go yet? Can I leave?" Maya begged Dorian, holding on to his hands.

"Soon," Dorian promised.

John rolled his eyes so hard he got dizzy. "Break it up," he said, "we're here for business not social hour."

Dorian ignored John and gave Maya a reassuring smile. He said, "We need you to try and talk with the man who died." He knew John wouldn't be able to ask Maya without sounding like a complete ass. "If you feel comfortable doing so."

She nodded and sat herself on the bed, holding out her hand for whatever they brought her. John dug in his pocket and dropped the watch into her palm. He opened his mouth to speak but Dorian shushed him. So instead he pulled his eyebrows into full scowl.

Maya took the watch tenderly, with reverence, and closed her eyes. John feared that his own eyes would roll out of his head if this got any more melodramatic.

Maya's full, pink, lipsticked lips smiled warmly. "It's okay, sweetie," she whispered.

She opened her eyes briefly and looked at John and Dorian, "He's very new to death," she warned. "Give me a moment to talk to him, please."

They crossed the room but didn't leave while Maya cooed compassionately to no one. John folded his arms and leaned close to Dorian to hiss, "I can't believe we're actually trying this."

"Try to be nice," Dorian insisted.

They stood there in silence and listened to the sweet psychic talk a dead man through his own death. John had to admit, if she wasn't actually talking to someone, she was an astounding actress.

"Can you tell me about your death?" Maya asked gingerly. She dripped with genuine compassion and Dorian turned his head slightly in admiration.

She listened a long while, making soft "Mmm" and "Ah" noises. "I'm sorry about all that," she finally said, "Oh no, of course, no hard feelings."

When she spoke with the dead, she had the tendency to forget the living. John sat himself on a chair and rolled his head back. Waiting was frustrating.

"Thank you, Henry," she finally said. Dorian smirked at John, neither of them had told her the man's name was Henry. John looked unimpressed.

Maya rose off the bed and walked over to the detective and his robot. "He had a gambling debt and owed a lot of money for drugs and other things," she paused to sigh, "Someone approached him and offered him a way out of all of it. All he had to do was trick me into wanting to hurt you." She had the decency to blush.

"Who was it, get a description," John goaded eagerly.

"They contacted him through notes only, usually notes wrapped around drugs. He never saw a person until the day he died," Maya informed them, "and even then, it was dark and he barely saw it coming."

John looked deflated. "Of course," he said, "No real information."

"He did say they set him up in a hotel room in district 12 and it had clothing and instructions," Maya offered, providing them with the hotel name and room number.

"Anything else?" John asked, itching to head over to the hotel but skeptical.

"He has a relative in Florida. I'll write down the address," she walked to the side table and pulled the stylus out of the desk, scribbling the address in scrawling letters onto a holonote. Dorian placed his finger on it and stored it, thanking her. "He wants his ashes sent there. He had no one else left, and no one in the city."

Maya seemed broken up over her conversation. John sighed, "Can he at least confirm that it was Insyndicate?" He couldn't believe he was asking this to a self-proclaimed psychic-medium with a straight face.

Maya clutched at the watch and closed her eyes. "Was Insyndicate behind all of this, Henry?" she made the request tenderly.

Listening carefully with a calm smile, she thanked him and opened her eyes. "He says that of course Insyndicate was behind it. They're behind everything. He also said that if you're looking for them in the city, you're looking on the wrong side of the wall."

Kennex and Dorian exchanged looks. Maya shifted on her hip. "I'd like to be released now, boys."

It was remarkable how seamlessly Maya moved from a sweet and motherly listener to a resolute negotiator.

"Absolutely," Dorian promised, "We'll put in the request. We appreciate your cooperation."

Maya smiled genuinely at the android.

"Stay safe out there," Dorian said. John nodded and weakly added his own voice to Dorian's sentiments. His mind was already half-way down the street.

They went to the hotel next, and discovered the room had indeed been reserved with an untraceable bitstick. Housekeeping had found some clothing items and drug paraphernalia which had been disposed of promptly.

"Of course it was," John snapped, slapping his hand on the counter and making the receptionist jump. He left the hotel with a menacing gait and a worried Dorian at his side.

Back in the cruiser, parked, John let his forehead rest on the steering wheel.

The android opened his mouth to make a remark about how, if he was planning on driving, his hands should be at ten and two, not his forehead at twelve when he saw the man's shoulders shaking a little. John placed his hands on the wheel and ground his face into it in frustration. Then he sat up and leaned his palms into his eyes, a visceral growl in his throat.

Dorian searched for something to say that would make sense in this moment. But, it was John who broke the silence with terse, throaty words. "I _really _thought we were close this time. That we'd made a breakthrough. But they cover their tracks. Every. Fucking. time." He punctuated the last three words with punches to the wheel.

"We prevented them from biological warfare, John," Dorian said reassuringly, "and we know they are on the other side of the wall."

"Fat lot of fucking good that does," John grumbled, kicking the cruiser into drive.

He steered them toward home. When he parked the car in the garage, John stayed in the driver's seat after he cut the ignition. The parking structure was dark and it was easier to talk in the low light.

"Look," He turned to Dorian, "I don't…I don't know how to say thank you for all you did while I was sick. Or sorry for all I did."

Deep, dimpled grooves framed Dorian's smile. He reached out and placed his fingers on John's forehead. There was no need to measure his temperature, but the gesture seemed so comfortable between them now.

"So," Dorian asked attentively, his hand slipping to the side of John's face, "What are you thinking for dinner?"


	10. Chapter 10

**Sick Leave: Chapter 10**

There was no hope of sleep for John. Dorian was charging in the back room and the gentle hum of his dock should have been the perfect lullaby. Instead, John's mind was buzzing and offered him no respite as he watched the moon trek across the skylight over his bed.

There was an odd conflict of emotions coursing through his head. He'd lost the trail on Insyndicate once again. Despite the tremendous setback, he felt a strange new comfort from Dorian's emerging role in his life. It had been years since anyone had cared for him as unconditionally as his partner had in the past week. Up until last night, he'd thought unconditional love had died with his parents. Dorian's newfound investment in his well-being was forcing him to navigate feelings of joy and unworthiness.

Unable to cope with the persistent insomnia, John launched himself up and sat on the side of the bed. _Fuck it_. He wasn't going to squirm and toss uselessly all night. He hopped over to his leg and rotated it into place, waiting while it calibrated. Yawning, stretching his back, he headed over to his dresser, pulled out a pair of jeans and half-stepped, half-stomped into them sluggishly. He dragged a black t-shirt over the top of his black tank top and zipped on a black sweatshirt. He looked like he was getting ready for a heist.

Finally, he dug through the bottom of the closet until he found the item he was looking for and stuffed it into his back pocket.

Before leaving the apartment, he quietly checked in on Dorian, who was charging in his dock, a peaceful, blank look on his face. It made John smile despite his grogginess. Quietly lifting his keys out of the bowl, John crept through the front door.

The streets were much less congested at four in the morning and listening to his music as he drove along placed the worry-drained man in a Zen mood. Of course, _now_ he was feeling tired. He feared he could fall asleep if he blinked a little too long. He slapped himself lightly on the side of his face with his open palm and gave his head a quick shake. When he rolled the window down, the brisk air on his face woke him up and galvanized his resolve.

Arriving at his destination, John pulled into the underground area and parked his car. The witness protection area was guarded at all times. The MX on duty eyeballed him as he stepped out of the cruiser. "Detective Kennex," the MX said.

By way of greeting, John yawned loudly, covering his mouth. He stretched his arms out and walked over to the door and gave it a knock. The MX turned to him. "No one is in that apartment, Detective."

"I know she is sleeping," John said, "but she's leaving in the morning. I don't think she'll mind." He knocked again.

The MX persisted, "Miss Vaughn is on an overnight flight to San Francisco. Her plane departed one hour and seventeen minutes ago."

It took a moment for John to register that news. His hand dropped from the door and he leaned his forehead against the cool reinforced steel.

"Are you feeling ill, detective?" the MX asked, scanning John's vitals.

"I'm fine," John muttered. "Tired." He headed back to the car numbly.

The MX cocked his head slightly as he watched John walk back to the cruiser and slide into the driver's seat.

John drove out of the underground holding area and headed for home. His eyes hurt and he felt foolish for making the trip. When he parked in the garage, the sky was starting to grow lighter. He leaned forward and pulled his father's hat out of his back pocket and held it in his hands with a frown. He told himself that it had been a stupid idea anyhow. Even if the psychic_ could_ speak to his dad, he wasn't even sure what he wanted to say. Just that he missed him, and that his murder had been so sudden and unfair. He needed someone to tell him that he was doing alright, to call him '_kid_.'

John swallowed a lump of grief in his throat. He suddenly felt unreasonably tired. His body was heavy and incapable and he didn't want to walk from the car to the apartment. He briefly considered leaning the seat back and closing his eyes for a few minutes. However, he knew better and forced himself onto his feet and out into the cool air. When he stumbled into the apartment again, he sloughed off his shoes wearily. Dorian was perched on the couch in the pre-dawn silence and John groaned in his throat when he saw him there.

"John," Dorian said, softly.

"I'm too tired," John said, waving his arm weakly at the DRN. "Please." John was expecting a fight but he wasn't sure why. He was a grown man and could leave his goddamned apartment any time he goddamned please. Still, an inexplicable brick of guilt settled on his chest.

Dorian approached quietly and helped him out of his coat. John handed Dorian the hat and shoved his pants past his hips and clumsily kicked them off of his legs on the way down the hallway.

Setting the hat reverently on the dresser, Dorian frowned. The MX had already alerted him to John's activities, but he hadn't understood the motivation until just this moment. "Maya caught a redeye to San Francisco," the android said softly, plagued with heartache at the realization that John had gone to speak to his departed father.

John sat on the bed and pulled his shirt up over his head groggily. "I don't care, anyhow," he muttered.

He unhooked his leg and let it clunk to the floor before slipping into the covers and cuddling up against his pillow. Dorian took the leg and put it on the charger. When he turned back, he took note of John's curled frame in the sheets. He looked pitiful and sad. Dorian walked to the other side of the bed and slipped into the covers.

As if magnetically drawn, John turned toward Dorian and slid closer until his forehead was resting on his chestplate. The android placed an arm around John and said, "Try to get some sleep."

It didn't take long for John's breath to grow softly cadenced.

. . . . . . . .

John awoke to the sun in his eyes and turned into his pillow to shield himself. It took his brain only a few seconds to catch up and realize that it was well past morning. He jerked upright and looked at the clock. Almost 11:00. Had he slept past his alarm? He turned to look at the other side of the bed. Had Dorian been in bed with him last night?

The back of his head throbbed. John threw back the sheets and fumbled to his leg. He had to pee, he'd slept past role call and beyond, and the residual sadness from his wee-hours escapade had yet to wear off.

After he finished with his morning routine, he walked through the empty apartment. Dorian wasn't there. There was a holonote on the desk that read, "Went to grab a few things. I'll be right back." _Of course_ Dorian would leave a fucking note. The android out-classed him in every regard.

He poured himself a hot cup of coffee and burned his mouth on it as he loomed in the silence of his apartment. He felt uneasy and strangely abandoned even though he had been waking up this same way, alone in his apartment, since he woke from his coma.

The front door clicked open and John peeked around the kitchen wall to see Dorian entering with his arms full. John cradled his hands around the hot coffee mug and leaned against the wall. Dorian had a bag over each shoulder and a thick load of clothing on hangers slung over his right arm. The crook of his left elbow was slung with grocery bags and on his left hand he balanced a pink box.

"Donuts?" John asked, walking over to lighten Dorian of the pink box. He took it to the kitchen, leaving the overloaded DRN in the doorway with the rest of his haul.

"Hey, get back here," Dorian called to John.

John came out of the kitchen with half a donut in his mouth. He looked at Dorian in surprise.

"Yeah, you," the android said. "You're not sick anymore. Give me a hand here." He held out the grocery bags to John and watched as he slowly, reluctantly set his donut down and walked over to take them. "Put them away, please," Dorian added, addressing his bed-headed human.

"Wha'd'ya'get?" John poked around in the bags.

Dorian walked past him to set his items in the back room. John smirked at all the produce and went to the kitchen, dumping the bags on the counter. He picked his donut back up, plucked another from the box, grabbed his now drinkable coffee, and went down the hall after Dorian.

"We're late for work," he said, watching the DRN hang clothing awkwardly on the side of the charging dock. His bags were on the floor.

"I called you in this morning," Dorian said, cringing as John took a way-too-big bite of a sprinkled pastry. "You didn't get nearly enough sleep."

The mention of sleep made John blush with the memory of cuddling up to Dorian in bed. He'd fallen asleep so peacefully with Dorian's arms around him.

"Get dressed," Dorian urged.

John almost looked upset. "Where are we going?"

"I need a proper place to hang my clothes." Dorian gestured to the bags and the poorly hung outfits.

"So this is official, eh?" John grinned into his cup of coffee, concealing his happiness with a sip. "I'm stuck with a roommate."

"You need a keeper."

John set his coffee down on a shelf and chewed on those words for a minute, processing them and determining just how offended he ought to be. He ironed his shoulders against the wall while he thought.

Dorian watched as John's eyes looked all over the room, anywhere to prevent eye contact. John was avoiding a deeper truth, a truth he wished for last night when he sought Maya's help to reach his long-departed father. He was mourning the close connections that he had once had in his life.

John hadn't liked the few minutes this morning when he had the apartment to himself. It'd felt empty and dead without Dorian there with him. He wondered if the fever and freeze had ruined his brain. Not long ago, he was expounding the joys of solitude. He closed his eyes tight, attempting to hold his emotions inward. Even then, when he said he was happiest alone, he was just pacifying himself.

A warm hand found its way into his hair, brushing across his forehead and sliding down his face, raising his chin. He opened his eyes to Dorian's blues shining at him. "It's okay, John." He was telling, not asking, but John nodded anyhow.

"What were you hoping to gain from talking to your father through Maya?" Dorian's other hand smoothed along John's arm reassuringly.

He felt safe and trapped at the same time. "I-uh-I don't know," John hoarsely replied, disarmed completely by Dorian's reassuring tone despite the brazen question. Dorian held him in his gaze, unrelenting. "I guess I wanted his forgiveness? Reassurance?" He felt stupid for admitting that aloud and fought off the mist of tears by looking up sharply toward the ceiling.

Dorian recognized that look and pulled him close, folding his arms around him, settling his lips against the curve where John's shoulder met his neck. Then he boldly lifted his head and pressed his lips into John's softly, thrilled as he felt them part to allow him in. John dropped the donut out of his hand, a thud and then the 'shush' of sprinkles scattering across the floor in the quiet. They shared their first kiss in the dim back room with the pocked drywall sorely in need of paint, Dorian's hand behind John's neck, John's hands balled with fistfuls of the android's shirt.

"From now on, you'll seek your comfort from the living, Jonathon Reginald Kennex," Dorian chided gently after breaking away. He kissed him again, shorter, more forceful. "Okay?"

All John could do was numbly agree. He looked slightly dazed and leaned against the wall again.

Dorian smiled at him and continued to fuss with this clothing in the tiny room. "Gonna get dressed?" he asked John, who still stood there, unable to focus on anything but breathing.

John nodded as Dorian went out past him and into the kitchen. He found the grocery bags on the counter and grumbled as he put the food away. "I asked him to do one thing," he muttered.

In the back room, John placed both his hands on his chest and thought about what the hell just happened. They'd kissed. Dorian kissed him and he kissed back. His heart was romping painfully in his chest. He needed some air.

He walked on jelly legs to his bedroom and slipped out onto the balcony, surrounded by the bay. He stood in the breeze and thought about Dorian. He was attempting to banish the feelings of happiness that filled his chest and head, diminishing them with unattractive facts. Dorian was his coworker, he was an android, _a synthetic_, a machine. He didn't age. He was bossy. He didn't eat. He drove John crazy. He was making him go shopping and taking away his trophy room. His mind slung fact after fact at his heart. His heart was persistent. _I don't care_ _about any of that_, John thought. Then he said it aloud, "I don't care." Finally, he looked toward the city, standing there in his sleep shorts and a tank top. He held out his arms and shouted, "I don't fucking care!"

Dorian lifted his eyebrows as he stepped onto the dock and examined his troubled human. "You don't care about what?"

John spun to look at Dorian and smiled. "Nothing." He couldn't keep his face straight. He wanted to kiss more but he held himself in place.

Dorian gave him a sidelong glance. "John, c'mon man. Get dressed."

John hated shopping, period. Furniture shopping was the absolute worst. "Dee," John smiled, "let's go another time. I need to shower."

"Take a quick shower then."

John pulled a deep breath of air into his lungs and pushed it back out again slowly. He knew how to play his android to get what he wanted. He turned to Dorian, giving him big eyes and letting his bottom lip slide just a little bit forward past his upper lip. "I'm not really in the mood to go shopping, Dorian. I had a really rough night." He waited with bedroom eyes, willing his lips not to twitch into a smile. This was the part where Dorian was going to tell him it was 'okay' and suggest they watch a movie on the couch.

Instead, Dorian looked unimpressed. "I think you may have cabin fever; a little time out will do you good. Get dressed."

That was it; John was going to have to put his foot down. "Okay, Dee, listen. I'd rather jump in this icy water than go shopping for furniture. And not just today, either. Ever. _Ever._ Let's order things online and you can run your patience program until they get here."

Dorian nodded a moment, looking down. He stepped toward John suddenly, hip-checking him into the bay with a splash.

John sputtered to the surface of the water and gasped, running a slick hand down his face to clear the water from his eyes. He gasped at the cold, treading and looking up at Dorian in shock and anger. "What the fuck, Dee!" He punched at the surface of the water.

"There, you are showered," Dorian grinned. "Hey, while you're in there, see if you can find that eye of mine you lost; it wasn't cheap you know. And then _get dressed_."

Dorian laughed at the angry look on his partner's face and walked back inside while John yanked himself up onto the deck, shivering, and went in to shower and get ready to go. There was no point in arguing. While he raked his fingers through his lathery hair, he couldn't help but smile despite his best efforts to stay angry.

Even though the last week had been hell, he was glad he had been lonely enough to use that fucking dating service. _Even_ if he _did_ get drugged. He dressed himself, thinking that he ought to go onto the dating site and delete his profile.

Of course, Dorian had already done that three days ago.

* * *

_This is the last chapter of Sick Leave. _

_It makes me sad to see it end, but I'm not done with these boys. _

_Big huge hulking thank you to __DJLiopleurodon__ for being my amazing, no-bullshit editor. _

_If you want to check out more of my stuff, look for "_Good Cop, Bad Cop_" under __DJLiopleurodon__'s profile. We're co-writing and chapter trading in this Avengers/Almost Human crossover. _

_AND more thanks to everyone who read this story! And to those who commented, you make me smile so much my face hurts. _

_Mwa! _


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